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CONTENTS. 



/ PAGE. 

^^giinieo and Juliet.. 9 

_Ji^gLear...'r... 3. 35 

____X^^Ji€llo. . .^ 57 

Timon cf Athens 11 

^31-aebeth ..if. 96 

" The Merchant of Venice. ^^ 1x3 

^ The Comedy of Errors ..... .^. 133 

HaniJe t. Prince of Denmarlc' 154 

The Tempest I77 

^ As You Like it 19S 

Vol. II. 

Much Ado about Nothing , 5 

<<_-A_Midsummer Night's Dream 24 

Measure for Measure 42 

,1x6 Taming of the Shrew 64 

. Twelfth Night, or What You Will 80 

Pericles, Prince of Tyre 100 

^_Th£_Winter's Tale 125 

All's Well that Ends Well 142 

i^ Two Gentlemen of Verona 161 

Cymbeline 180 

Life of Shakspeare 201 

Chronological Ordjer of Shakspeare 's Dramas. ... 231 



PREFACE. 

The following Tales are meant to be sub- 
mitted to the young reader as an introduction 
to the study of Shakspeare, for which purpose 
his words are used whenever it seemed possible 
to bring them in : and in whatever has been 
added to give them the regular form of a con- 
nected story, diligent care has been taken to 
select such words as might least interrupt the 
effect of the beautiful English tongue in which 
he wrote : therefore words introduced into our 
language since his time have been as far as 
possible avoided. 

In those Tales which have been taken from 
the Tragedies, as my young readers will per- 
ceive when they come to see the source from 
which these stories are derived, Shakspeare's 
own words, with little alteration, recur very 
frequently in the narrative as well as in the 
dialogue ; but in those made from the Come- 
dies 1 found myself scarcely ever able to turn 
his words into the narrative form : therefore I 
fear in them I have made use of dialogue too 
.frequently for young people not used to the 
dramatic form of writing. But this fault, if it 
be, as I fear, a fault, has been caused by my 



6 PREFACE. 

earnest wish to give as much of Shakspeare's 
own words as possible : and if the " He said," 
and " She said,'' the question and the reply, 
should sometimes seem tedious to their young 
ears, they must pardon it, because it was the 
only way I knew of, in which I could give 
them a few hints and little foretastes oi the 
great pleasure which awaits them in their elder 
years, when they come to the rich treasures 
from which these small and valueless coins 
are extracted ; pretending to no other merit 
than as faint and imperfect stamps of Shaks- 
peare's matchless image. Faint and imperfect 
images they must be called, because the beauty 
of his language is too frequently destroyed by 
the necessity of changing many of his excellent 
words into words far less expressive of his 
true sense, to make it read something like 
prose ; and even in some places, where hia 
blank verse is given unaltered, as hoping from 
Its simple plainness to cheat the young readers 
into the belief that they are reading prose, yet 
still his language being transplanted from its 
own natural soil and wild poetic garden, it 
must want much of its native beauty. 

I have wished to make these Tales easy 
reading for very young children. To the 
utmost of my ability I have constantly kept 
this in my mind ; but the subjects of most of 
them made this a very difficult task. It was 
no easy matter to give the histories of men 
and women in terms familiar to the apprehen- 
sion of a very young mind. For young ladies 



PREFACE. 7 

too it has been my intention chiefly to write, 
because boys are generally permitted the use of 
their fathers' libraries at a much earlier age 
than girls are ; they frequently have the best 
scenes of Shakspeare by heart, before their 
sisters are permitted to look into this manly 
book ; and, therefore, instead of recommend- 
ing these Tales to the perusal of young gentle- 
men who can read them so much better in the 
ofiguials, I must rather beg their kind assist- 
ance in explaining to their sisters such parts 
as are hardest for them to understand ; and 
when they have helped them to get over the 
difficulties, then perhaps they will read to them 
(carefully selecting what is proper for a young 
sister's ears) some passage which has pleased 
them in one of these stories, in the very words 
of the scene from which it is taken ; and I 
trust they will find that the beautiful extracts, 
the select passages, they may choose to give 
their sisters in this way, will be much better 
relished and understood from their having 
some notion of the general story from one of 
these imperfect abridgments ; which if they be 
fortunately so done as to prove delightful to 
any of you, my young readers, I hope will 
have no worse effect upon you, than to make 
you wish yourselves a little older, that you 
may be allowed to read the plays at full length 
[such a wish will be neither peevish nor irra- 
tional). When time and leave of judicious 
friends shall put them into your hands, you 
will discover in such of them as are here 



8 PREFACE. 

abridged (not to mention almost as many more 
which are left untouched) many surprising 
events and turns of fortune, which for their 
infinite variety could not be contained in this 
little book, besides a world of sprightly and 
cheerful characters, both men and women, the 
humor of which I was fearful of losing if I 
attempted to reduce the length of them. 

What these Tales have been to you in child- 
hood, that and much more it is my wish that 
the true plays of Shakspeare may prove to you 
in older years — enrichers of the fancy, strength.' 
eners of virtue, a withdrawing from all selfish 
and mercenary thoughts, a lesson of all sweet 
and honorable thoughts and actions, to teach 
you courtesy, benignity, generosity, humanity ; 
for of examples, teaching these virtues, his 
pages are full. 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE, 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 

The two chief families in Verona were the 
rich Capulets and the Montagues. There had 
been an old quarrel between these families, 
which was grown to such a height, and so 
deadly was the enmity between them, that it 
extended to the remotest kindred, to the fol- 
lowers and retainers of both sides, insomuch 
that a servant of the house of Montague could 
not meet a servant of the house of Capulet, 
nor a Capulet encounter with a Montague by 
chance, but fierce words and sometimes blood- 
shed ensued ; and frequent were the brawls 
from such accidental meetings, which disturbed 
the happy quiet of Verona's estate. 

Old lord Capulet made a great supper, to 
which many fair ladies and many noble guests 
were invited. All the admired beauties of 
Verona were present, and all comers were 
made welcome if. they were not of the house 
of Montague. At this feast of Capulets, Rosa- 

9 



lo TALES I ROM SHAKSPEARE, 

line, beloved of Romeo, son to the old lord 
Montague, was present ; and though it was 
dangerous for a Montague to be seen in this 
assembly, yet Benvolio, a friend of Romeo, per- 
suaded the young lord to go to this assembly 
in the disguise of a mask, that he might see 
his Rosaline, and seeing her, compare her with 
some choice beauties of Verona, who (he said^ 
would make him think his swan a crow. Ro- 
meo had small faith in Benvolio's words; 
nevertheless, for the love of Rosaline, he was 
persuaded to go. For Romeo was a sincere 
and passionate lover, and one that lost his 
sleep for love, and fled society to be alone, 
thinking on Rosaline, who disdained him, and 
never requited his love with the least show of 
courtesy or affection ; and Benvolio wished to 
rure his friend of this love by showing him 
diversity of ladies and company. To this feast 
of Capulets then young Romeo with Benvolio 
and their friend Mercutio went masked. Old 
Capulet bid them welcome, and told them that 
ladies who had their toes unplagued with corns 
would dance with them. And the old man 
was light-hearted and merry, and said that he 
had worn a mask when he was young, and 
could have told a whispering tale in a fair 
lady's ear. And they fell to dancing, and Ro- 
meo was suddenly struck with the exceeding 
beauty of a lady that danced there, who seemed 
to him to teach the torches to burn bright, and 
her beauty to show by night like a rich jewel 
Worn by a blackamoor : beauty too rich for 



ROMEO AND JULIET. ii 

use, too dear for earth ! like a snowy dove 
trooping with crows (he said), so richly did 
her beauty and perfections shine above the 
iadies j;ier companions. While he uttered 
these praises, he was overheard by Tybalt, a 
nephew of lord Capulet, who knew him by his 
voice to be Romeo. And this Tybalt, being 
of a fiery and passionate temper, could not en- 
dure ttiat a Montague should come under 
cover of a mask, to fleer and scorn (as he 
said) '^at their solemnities. And he stormed 
and raged exceedingly, and would have struck 
young Romeo dead. But his uncle, the old 
lord Capulet, would not suffer him to do any 
injury at that time, both out of respect to his 
guests, and because Romeo had borne himself 
like a gentleman, and all tongues in Verona 
bragged of him to be a virtuous and well- 
governed youth. Tj^balt, forced to be patient 
against his will, restrained himself, but swore 
that this vile Montague should at another time 
dearly pay for his intrusion. 

The dancing being done, Romeo watched 
the place where the lady stood ; and under 
favor of his masking habit, which might seem 
to excuse in part the liberty, he presumed in 
the gentlest manner to take her by the hand, 
calling it a shrine, which if he profaned by 
touching it. he was a blushing pilgrim, and 
would kiss it for atonement. " Good pilgrim," 
answered the lady, " your devotion shows by 
far too mannerly and too courtly : saints have 
hands, which pilgrims may touch, but kiss not," 



12 TALES FROM SFTAKSPEARE. 

"Have not saints lips, and pilgrims too?" 
said Romeo. " Ay," said the lady, " lips which 
they must use in prayer." " O then, my dear 
saint," said Romeo, " hear my prayer and 
grant it, lest I despair." In such like allu- 
sions and loving conceits they were engaged, 
when the lady was called away to her mother. 
And Romeo inquiring who her mother was, 
discovered that the lady whose peerless beauty 
he was so much struck with, was young Juliet, 
daughter and heir to the lord Capulet, the 
great enemy of the Montagues ; and that he 
had unknowingly engaged his heart to his foe. 
This troubled him, but it could not dissuade 
him from loving. As little rest had Juliet, 
when she found that the gentleman that she 
had been talking with was Romeo and a Mon- 
tague, for she had been suddenly smit with the 
same hasty and inconsiderate passion for Ro- 
meo which he had conceived for her ; and a 
prodigious birth of love it seemed to her, that 
she must love her enem}^ and that Ixer affec- 
tions should settle there, where family consid- 
erations should induce her chiefly to hate. 

It being midnight, Romeo with his com- 
panions departed ; but they soon missed him, 
for unable to stay away from the house where 
he had left his heart, he leaped the wall of an 
orchard which was at the back of Juliet's house. 
Here he had not remained long, ruminating 
on his new love, when Juliet appeared above 
at a window, through which her exceeding 
beauty seemed to break like the light of the sud 



ROMEO A ND JULIE 7. 1 3 

in the east ; and the moon, which shone in thi 
orchard with a faint light appeared to Romeo 
as if sick and pale with grief at the superioi 
luster of this new sun. And she leaning hei 
hand upon her cheek, he passionately wished 
himself a glove upon that hand, that he 
might touch her cheek. She all this while 
thinking herself alone, fetched a deep sigh, 
and exclaimed, " Ah me ! " Romeo wa<s 
enraptured to hear "her speak, and said softly, 
unheard by her, " O speak again, bright angel, 
for such you appear, being over my head, like 
a winged messenger from heaven whom mortals 
fall back to gaze upon." She, unconscious of 
being overheard, and full of the new passion 
which that night's adventure had given birth 
to, called upon her lover by name (whom she 
supposed absent) : " O Romeo, Romeo ! " 
said she, " wherefore art thou Romeo ? Deny 
thy father, and refuse thy name, for my sake ; 
or if -thou wilt not, be but my sworn love, and 
I no longer will be a Capulet." Romeo, hav- 
ing this encouragement, would fain have 
spoken, but he was desirous of hearing more ; 
and the lady continued her passionate dis- 
course with herself (as she thought), still chid- 
ing Romeo for being Romeo and a Montague, 
^nd wishing him some other name, or that he 
Bvould put away the hated name, and for that 
name, which was no part of himself, he should 
take all herself. At this loving word Romeo 
could no longer refrain, but taking up the 
dialogue as if her words had been addressed 



H TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

to him personally, and not merely in fancy, he 
bade her call him Love, or by whatever othei 
name she pleased, for he was no longer Romeo, 
if i-hat name was displeasing to her. Juliet, 
alarmed to hear a man's voice in the garden, did 
not at first know who it was, that by favor of 
the night and darkness had thus stumbled upon 
the discovery of her secret • but when he spoke 
again, though her ears had not yet drunk a 
hundred words of that tongue's uttering, yet 
so nice is a lover's hearing, that she immedi- 
ately knew him to be young Romeo, and she 
expostulated with him on the danger t which 
he had exposed himself by chm 'ng the 
orchard walls, for If any of her kinsmen should 
find him there, it would be death to him, 
being a Montague. " Alack," said Romeo, 
" there is more peril in your eye, than in twenty 
of their swords. Do you but look kind upon 
me, lady, and I am proof against their enmity. 
Better my life should be ended by their hate, 
than that hated life should be prolonged, to 
live without your love." " How came you 
into this place," said Juliet, "and by whose 
direction ? " " Love directed me," answered 
Romeo : " I am no pilot, yet wert thou as far 
apart from me, as th-t vast shore which is 
washed with the farthest sea, I should advent- 
ure for such merchandise." A crimson blush 
came over the face "iet, yet unseen by 

Romeo upon the discovery which she had 
reflected by reason of the night, when she 
made, yet not meaning to make it, of hei love 



ROMEO AND JULIET, 15 

to Romeo. She would fain have recalled hef 
words, but that was impossible ; fain would 
she have stood upon form, and have kept her 
lover at a distance, as the custom of discreet 
ladies is, to frown and be perverse, and give their 
suitors harsh denials at first ; to stand off, and 
affect a coyness or indifference, where they 
most love, that their lovers may not think them 
too lightly or too easily won : for the difficulty 
of attainment increases the value of the object. 
But there was no room in her case for denials, 
or puttings off, or any of the customary arts 
oc delay and protractive courtship. Romeo 
had heard from her own tongue, when she did 
not dream that he was near her, a confession 
of her love. So with an honest frankness, 
which the novelty of her situation excused, 
she confirmed the truth of what he had before 
heard, and addressing him by the name oifair 
Montague (love can sweeten a sour name), she 
begged him not to impute her easy yielding to 
levity or an unworthy mind, but that he must 
fay the fault of it (if it were a fault) upon the 
accident of the night which had so strangely 
discovered her thoughts. And she added, 
that though her behavior to him might not 
be sufficiently prudent, measured by the cus- 
tom of her sex, yet that she would prove more 
true than many whose prudence was dissem- 
bling, and their modesty artificial cunning. 

Romeo was beginning to call the heavens to 
witness that nothing was farther from his 
thoughts than to impute a shadow of dishontwr 



46 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

HI* such an honored lady, when she stopped 
him, begged him not to swear : for although 
she joyed in him, yet she liad no joy of that 
tiiglit's contract ; it was too rash, too unad- 
vised, too sudden. But he being urgent with 
her to exchange a vow of love with her that 
night, she said that she already had given 
bim, hers before he requested it; meaning, 
when he overheard her confession ; but she 
would retract what she then bestowed, for 
the pleasure of giving it again, for her bounty 
was as infinite as the sea, and her love as 
deep. From this loving conference she was 
called away by her nurse, who slept with 
her, and thought it time for her to be in bed, 
for it was near to daybreak; but hastily 
returning, she said three or four words more 
to Romeo, the purport of which was, that 
if his love was indeed honorable, and his 
purpo^^e marriage, she would send a mes- 
senger to him to-morrow, to appoint a time 
for their marriage, when she would lay all her 
fortunes at his feet, and follow him as her lord 
through the world. While they were settling 
this point, Juliet was repeatedly called for by 
her nurse, and vtrent in and returned, and went 
and returned again, for she seemed as jealous 
of Romeo going from from her, as a young 
girl of her bird, which she will let hop a little 
from her hand, and pluck it back with a silken 
thread ; and Romeo was as loath to part as 
she : for the sweetest music to lovers is the 
sound of each other's tongues at night. Bui 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 17 

at last they parted, wishing mutually sweet 
sleep and rest for that night. 

The day was breaking when they parted, 
and Romeo, who was too full of thoughts of 
his mistress and that blessed meeting to allow 
him to sleep, instead of going home, bent his 
course to a monastery hard by, to find friar 
Lawrence. The good friar was already up a| 
his devotions, but seeing young Romeo abroad 
so early, he conjectured rightly that he had 
not been abed that night, but that some dis- 
temper of youthful affection had kept him 
waking. He was right in imputing the cause 
of Romeo's wakefulness to love, but he made 
a wrong guess at the object, for he thought 
that his love for Rosaline had kept him waking. 
But when Romeo revealed his new passion for 
Juliet, and requested the assistance of the 
friar to marry them that day, the holy man 
lifted up his eyes and hands in a sort of 
wonder at the sudden change in Romeo's 
affections, for he had been privy to all Romeo's 
love for Rosaline, and his many complaints of 
her disdain ; and he said that young men's love 
Jay not truly in their hearts,, but in their eyes. 
But Romeo replying that he himself had often 
chidden him for doting on Rosaline, who could 
not love him again, whereas Juliet both loved 
and was beloved by him, the friar assented in 
some measure to his reasons; and think that 
a matrimonial alliance between young Juliet 
and Romeo might happily be the means of 
making up the long breach between the 



iR TALES FROM SHAKSPEARB. 

Capulets and the Montagues, which no one 
more lamented than this good friar, who was 
a friend to both the families, and had often 
interposed his mediation to make up the 
quarrel without effect, partly moved by policy, 
and partly by her fondness for young Romeo 
to whom he could deny nothing, the old man. 

Now was Romeo blessed indeed, and Juliet, 
who knew his intent from a messenger which 
she had despatched according to promise, did 
not fail to be early at the cell of friar Lawrence, 
where their hands were joined in holy marriage ; 
the good friar praying the heavens to smile 
upon that act, and in the union of this young 
Montague and young Capulet to bury the old 
Strife and long dissension of their families. 

The ceremony being over, Juliet hastened 
home, where she stayed impatient for the com- 
ing of night, at which time Romeo promised 
to come and meet her in the orchard, where 
they had met the- night before ; and the time 
between seemed as tedious to her as the night 
before some great festival seems to an im- 
patient child that has got new finery which it 
may not put on till the morning. 

That same day about noon, Romeo's friends, 
BenvoHo and Mercutio, walking through the 
streets of Verona, were met by a party of the 
Capulets with the impetuous Tybalt at their 
head. This was the same angry Tybalt who 
would have fought with Romeo at old lord 
Capulet's feaSt. He seeing Mercutio, accused 
him bluntly of associating with Romeo, a 



ROMEO AND JULIET, 19 

Montague. Mercutio, who had as much fire 
and youthful blood in him as Tybalt, replied 
!lo this accusation with some sharpness ; and 
iin spite of all Benvolio could say to moderate 
itheir wrath, a quarrel was beginning when 
Romeo himself passing that way, the fierce 
Tybalt turned from Mercutio to Romeo, and 
gave him the disgraceful appellation of villain. 
Romeo wished to avoid a quarrel with Tybalt 
above all men, because he was the kinsman of 
Juliet, and much beloved by her ; besides this 
young Montague had never thoroughly entered 
into the family quarrel, being by nature wise 
and gentle, and the name of a Capulet, which 
was his dear lady's name, was now rather a 
charm to allay resentment than a watchword 
to excite fury. So he tried to reason with 
Tybalt, whom he saluted mildly by the name 
of good Capulet^ as if he, though a Montague, 
had some secret pleasure in uttering that name ; 
but Tybalt, who hated all Montagues as he 
hated hell, would hear no reason, but drew his 
weapon ; and Mercutio, who knew not of 
Romeo's secret motive for desiring peace with 
Tybalt, but looked upon his present forbearance 
as a sort of calm dishonorable submission, 
with many disdainful words provoked Tybalt 
to the prosecution of his first quarrel with him ; 
and Tybalt and Mercutio fought, till Mercu- 
tio fell, receiving his death's wound while 
Romeo and Benvolio were vainly endeavoring 
to part the combatants. Mercutio being dead, 
Romeo kept his temper no longer, but returned 



20 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARF.. 

the scornful appellation of villain which Tybalt 
had given him ; and they fought till Tybalt 
was slain by Romeo. This deadly broil fall- 
ing out in the midst of Verona at noonday, the 
news of it quickly brought out a crowd of 
citizens to the spot, and among them the old 
lords Capulet and Montague, with their wives ; 
and soon after arrived the prince himself, who, 
being related to Mercutio, whom Tybalt had 
slain, and having had the peace of his govern- 
ment often disturbed by these brawls of Mon- 
tagues and Capulets, came determined to put the 
law in strictest force against those who should 
be found to be offenders. Benvolio, who had 
been eyewitness to the fray, was commanded 
by the prince to relate the origin of it, which 
he did, keeping as near to the truth as he 
could without injury to Romeo, softening and 
excusing the part which his friends took in it. 
Lady Capulet, whose extreme grief for the loss 
of her kinsman Tybalt made her keep no bounds 
in her revenge, exhorted the prince to do strict 
justice upon his murderer, and to pay no 
attention to Benvolio's representation, who 
being Romeo's friend, and a Montague, spoke 
partially. Thus she pleaded against her new 
son-in-law, but she knew not yet that he was 
her son-in-law, and Juliet's husband. On the 
other hand was to be seen lady Montague 
pleading fdr her child's life, and arguing with 
some justice that Romeo had done nothing 
worthy of punishment in taking the life of 
Tybalt which was already forfeited to the law 



ROMEO AAW JULIET. 2! 

by liis having slain Mercutio. Tlie prince, 
anmoved by the passionate exclamations of 
these women, on a careful examination of the 
facts, pronounced his sentence, and by that 
sentence Romeo was banished from Verona. 

Heavy news to young Juliet, who had been 
but a few hours a bride, and now by this de- 
cree seemed everlastingly divorced 1 When 
the tidings reached her, she at first gave way 
to rage against Romeo, who had slain her dear 
cousin : she called him a beautiful tyrant, a 
fiend angelical, a ravenous dove, a lamb with 
a wolf's nature, a serpent-heart hid with a 
flowering face, and other like contradictory 
names, which denoted the struggles in her 
mind between her love and her resentment; 
but in the end love got the mastery, and the 
tears which she shed for grief that Romeo 
had slain her cousin, turned- to drops of joy 
that her husband lived whom Tybalt would 
have slain. Then came fresh tears, and they 
were altogether of grief for Romeo's banish- 
ment. That word was more terrible to her 
than the death of many Tybalts. 

Romeo, after the fray, had take., refuge in 
friar Lawrence's cell, where he was first made 
acquainted with the prince's sentence, which 
seemed to him f?,r more terrible than death. 
To him it appeared there was no world out of 
Verona's walls, no living out of the sight of 
Juliet. Heaven was there where Juliet lived, 
and all beyond was purgatory, torture, helL 
The giood friar would have applied the conso 



.£2 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

lation of philosophy to his griefs; but this 
frantic young man would hear of none, but 
like a madman he tore his hair, and threw 
himself all along upon the ground, as he said 
to take the measure of his grave. From this 
unseemly state he was roused by a message 
from his dear lady, which a little revived him 
and then the friar took the advantage to ex- 
postulate with him on the unmanly weakness 
which he had shown. He had slain Tybalt, but 
would he also slay himself, slay his dear lad)* 
who lived but in his life.? The noble form of 
man, he said, was but a shape of wax, when it 
wanted the courage which should keep it firm. 
The law had been lenient to him, that instead 
of death, which he had incurred, had pro- 
nounced by the prince's mouth only banish- 
ment. He had slain Tybalt, but Tybalt would 
have slain him : there was a sort of happiness 
in that. Juliet was alive, and (beyond all hope) 
had become his dear wife, therein he was 
most ha'ppy. All these blessings, as the friar 
made them out to be, did Romeo put from him 
like a suHen, misbehaved wench. And the 
friar bade him beware, for such as despaired 
(he said) died miserable. Then when Romeo 
was a little calmed, he counseled him that h.. 
should go that night and secretly take hisleav*.- 
of Juliet, and thence proceed straightways to 
Mantua, at which place he should sojourn, 
till the friar found a fit occasion to publish hi;5 
marriage, which might be a joyful means of 
reconciling their families ; and then he did 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 23 

not doubt but the prince would be moved to 
pardon him, and he would return with twenty 
times more joy than he went forth with grief. 
Romeo was convinced by these wise counsels 
of the friar, and took his leave to go and seek 
his lady, purposing to stay with her that night, 
and by daybreak pursue his journey alone to 
Mantua ; to which place the good friar promised 
to send him letters from time to time, acquaint- 
ing him with the state of affairs at home. 

That night Romeo passed with his aear wife, 
gaining secret admission to her chamber from 
the orchard in which he had heard her con- 
fession of love the night before. That had 
been a night of unmixed joy and rapture ; but 
the pleasures of this night, and the delight 
which these lovers took in each other's society, 
were sadly allayed with the prospect of parting, 
and the fatal adventures of the past day. The 
unwelcome daybreak seemed to come too soon, 
and when Juliet heard the morning song of the 
lark, she would fain have persuaded herself 
that it was the nightingale, which sings by 
night : but it was too truly the lark which 
sung, and a discordant and unpleasing note it 
seemed to her ; and the streaks of day in the 
east too certainly pointed out that it was time 
for these lovers to part. Romeo took his leave 
of his dear wife with a heavy heart, promising 
to write to her from Mantua every hour in the 
day, and when he had descended from her 
chamber-window, as he stood below her on the 
ground, in that sad foreboding state of mind, 



24. TALES FROM SHAKSPEARk, 

in which she was, he appeared to her eyes as 
one dead in the bottom of a tomb. Romeo's 
mind misgave him in like manner ; but now 
he was forced hastily to depart, for it was 
death for him to be found within the walls of 
Verona after daybreak. 

This was but the beginning of the tragedy 
of this pair of star-crossed lovers. Romeo 
had not been gone many days, before the old 
lord Capulet proposed a match for Juliet. The 
husband he had chosen for her, not dreaming 
that she was married already, was count Paris, 
a gallant, young, and noble gentleman, no un- 
worthy suitor to the young Juliet if she had 
never seen Romeo. 

The terrified Juliet was in a sad perplexity 
at her father's offer. She pleaded her youth 
unsuitable to marriage, the recent death of 
Tybalt, which had left her spirits too weak to 
meet a husband with any face of joy, and how 
indecorous it would show for the family of 
the Capulets to be celebrating a nuplial-feast, 
when his funeral solemnities were hardly 
over : she pleaded every reason against the 
match bvit the true one, namely, that she was 
married already. But lord Capulet was deaf 
to all her excuses, and in a peremptory man^ 
ner ordered her to get ready, for by the follow- 
ing Thursday she should be married to Paris ' 
and having found her a husband rich, young, 
and noble, such as the proudest maid in Verona 
might joyfully accept, he could not bear that 
out of an affected coyness, as he construed her 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 25 

denial, she should oppose obstacles to her 
own good fortune. 

In this extremity, Juliet applied to the 
friendly friar, always her counsellor in dis- 
tress, and he asked her if she had resolution 
to undertake a desperate remedy, and she 
answered that she would go into the grave 
alive, rather than marry Paris, her own dear 
husband living; he directed her to go home, 
and appear merry, and give her consent to 
marry Paris, according to her father's de- 
sire, and on the next night, which was the 
night before the marriage, to drink off the 
contents of a phial which he then gave her, 
the effects of which would be, that for two- 
and-forty hours after drinking it she should 
appear cold and lifeless; that when the 
bridegroom came to fetch her in the morn- 
ing, he would find her to appearance dead; 
that then she would be borne, as the man- 
ner in that country was, uncovered, on a 
bier, to be buried in the family vault; that 
if she could put off womanish fear, and con- 
sent to this terrible trial, in forty -two 
hours after swallowing the liquid (such was 
its certain operation) she would be sure to 
awake, as from a dream; and before she 
should awake, he would let her husband 
know their drift, and he should come in the 
night, and bear her thence to Mantua. 
Love, and the dread of marrying Paris, 
gave young Juliet strength to undertake 
this horrible adventure; and she took the 
phial of the friar, promising to observe his 
directions. 



t6 TALES FROM SHAKSprARE. 

Going from the monastery, she met the 
young count Paris, and modestly dissembhng, 
promised to become his br'ue. This was joy- 
ful news to the lord Capuhi. and his wife. It 
seemed to put youth into the old man ; and 
Juliet, who had displeased him exceedingly by 
her refusal of the count, was his darling again, 
now she promised to be obed ent. All things 
in the house were in a bustle against the ap- 
proaching nuptials. No cost was spared to 
prepare such festival rejoicings as Verona had 
never before witnessed. 

On the Wednesday night Juliet drank off 
the potion. She had many misgivings, lest 
the friar, to avoid the blame which might be 
imputed to him for marrying her to Romeo, 
had given her poison ; but then he was always 
known for a holy man : then lest she should 
awake before the time that Romeo was to come 
for her, whether the terror of the place, a 
vault full of dead Capulets' bones, and where 
Tybalt, all bloody, lay festering in his shroud, 
would not be enough to drive her distracted : 
again she thought of all the stories she- had 
heard of spirits haunting the places where 
their bodies were bestowed. But then her 
love for Romeo, and her aversion for Paris 
returned, and she desperately swallowed the 
draught, and became insensible. 

When young Paris came early in the morn- 
ing with music, to awaken his bride, instead 
of a living Juliet, her chamber presented the 
dreary spectacle of a lifeless corpse. What 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 27 

death to his hopes! What ronfusion then 
reigned through the whole house ! Poor Paris 
lamenting his bride, whom most detestable 
death had t)eguiled him of, had divorced from 
him even before their hands were joined. But 
still more piteous it was to hear the mournings 
of the old lord and lady Capulet, who having 
but this one, one poor lovuig child to rejoice 
and solace in, cruel death had snatched hei 
from their sight, just as these careful parents 
were on the point of seeing her advanced (as 
they thought) by a promising and advantageous 
match. Now all things fhat were ordained 
for the festival were turned from their proper- 
ties to do the office of a black funeral. The 
wedding cheer served for a sad burial feast, 
the bridal hymns were changed to sullen 
dirges, the sprightly instruments to melancholy 
bells, and the flowers that should have been 
strewed in the bride's path, now served but tc 
strew her corse. Now instead of a priest to 
marry her, a priest was needed tc bury her; 
and she was borne to church indeed not tc 
angmen the cheerful hopes of the living, but 
to swei the dreary numbers ot the dead 
4-Bad news, wh ch always travels faster than 
good, now brought the dismal story of Ms 
Juliet's death to Romeo at Mantua, before the 
messenger could arrive who was sent from 
iriar Lawrence to app ise him that these were 
mock funerals on y, and bu" the shadow and 
representation of death, and ll.at his dear lady 
lay in the tomb but for a short while, expect- 



zS TALES FROM SHAKS'PEARE. 

jng when Romeo should come to release hei 
from that dreary mansion. Just before, Romeo 
had been unusually joyful and lighthearted. 
He had dreamed in the night that he was dead 
(a strange dream, that gave a dead man leave 
to think), and that his lady came and found 
him dead, and breathed such life with kisses 
in his lips, that he revived, and was an em- 
peror ! And now that a messenger came from 
Verona, he thought surely it was to confirm 
some good news which his dreams had pre- 
saged. But when the contrary to this flatter- 
ing vision appeared, and that it was his lady 
who was dead in truth, whom he could not re- 
vive by any kisses, he ordered horses to be 
got ready, for he determined that night to visit 
Verona, and to see his lady in her tomb. And 
as mischief is swift to enter into the thoughts 
of desperate men, he called to mind a poor 
apothecary, whose shop in Mantua he had 
lately passed, and from the beggarly appear- 
ance of the man, who seemed famished, an(* 
the wretched show in his shop of empty boxes 
ranged on dirty shelves, and other tokens of 
extreme wretchedness, he had said at the time 
(perhaps having some misgiv'ngs that his own 
disastrous nie might haply meet with a conclu- 
sion so desperate), " If a man were to need 
poison, which by the law of Mantua it is death 
to sell, here lives a poor wretch who would 
sell it him." These words of his now came 
into his mind, and he sought out the apothe- 
cary, who, after some pretended scruples, 



ROMEO /IND JULIET. 49 

Romeo offering him gold which his poi^erty 
could not resist, sold him a poison, which if he 
swallowed, he told him, if he had the strength 
of twentj'^men, would quickly despatch him. 
With this poison he set out for Verona, to 
have a sight of his dear lady in her tomb, 
meaning, when he had satisfied his sight, to 
swallow the poison, and be buried by her side. 
He reached Verona at midnight, and found 
the churchyard, in the midst of which was 
situated the ancient tomb of the Capulets. 
He had provided a ligKt, and a spade, and 
wrenching iron, and was proceeding to break 
open the monument, when he was interrupted 
by a voice, which by the name oivile Montague, 
bade him desist from his unlawful business, 
It was the young count Paris, who had come 
to the tomb of Juliet at unseasonable time of 
night, to strew flowers, and weep over the 
!_jrave of her that should have been his bride. 
He knew not what an interest Romeo had 
in the dead, but knowing him to be a Mon- 
tague, and (as he supposed) a foe to all the 
Capulets, therefore, in angry tones he bade 
him desist; and as a criminal by the laws of 
Verona to die if he were found within the 
walls of the city, he would have apprehended 
him, Remeo urged Paris to leave him, and 
warned him by the fate of Tybalt, not to pro- 
voke his anger, or draw down another sin 
upon his head, by forcing him to kill him. 



30 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

But the count in scorn refused his warning; 
and laid hands on him as a felon, which 
Romeo resisting, they fought, and Paris fell 
When Romeo, by the help of a light, came to 
see who it was that he had slain, that it was 
Paris, who (he learned in his way from Mantua) 
should have married Juliet, he took the dead 
youth by the hand, as one whom misfortune 
had made a companion, and said that he would 
bury him in a triumphal grave, meaning in 
Juliet's grave, which he now opened : and there 
lay his lady, as one wJiom death had no power 
upon to change a feature or complexion in 
her matchless beauty, or as if Death were 
amorous, and the lean abhorred monster kept 
her thei-e for his delight ; for she lay yet fresh 
and blooming, as she had fallen to sleep when 
she swallowed that benumbing potion : and 
near her lay Tybalt in his bloody shroud, whom 
Romeo seeing, begged pardon of his lifeless 
corse, and for Juliet's sake called him cousin^ 
and said that he was about to do him a favor 
by putting his enemy to death. Here Romeo 
took his last leave of his lady's lips, kissing 
them ; and here he shook the burden of his 
cross stars from his weary body, swallowing 
that poison which the apothecary had sold him, 
whose operation was fatal and real, not like 
that dissembling potion which Juliet had swal- 
lowed, the effect of which was now nearly ex- 
piring, and she about to awake to complain 
that Romeo had not kept his time, or that he 
had come too soon. 



ROMEO AND JULIE T. 3 i 

For now the hour was arrived at which the 
friar had promised that she should awake ; and 
fee, having learned that his letters which he had 
sent to Mantua, by some unlucky detention of 
the messenger, had never reached Romeo, 
came himself, provided with a pickaxe and 
lantern, to deliver the lady from her confine- 
Aient •. but he was surprised to find a light 
already burning in the Capulets' monument, 
and to" see swords and blood near it, and 
Romeo and Paris lying breathless by the 
monument. 

Before he could entertain a conjecture, to 
imagine how these fatal accidents had fallen 
out, Juliet awoke out of her trance, and seeing 
the friar near her, she remembered the place 
where she was, and the occasion of her being 
there, and asked for Romeo : but the friar, 
hearing a noise, bade her come out of that 
place of death, and of unnatural sleep, for a 
greater power than they could contradict had 
thwarted their intents ; and being frighted by 
the noise of people coming, he fled ; but when 
Juliet saw the cup closed in her true love's 
hands, she guessed that poison had been the 
cause of his end, and she would have swallowed 
the dregs if any had been left, and she kissed his 
still warm lips to try if any poison yet did hang 
upon them : then hearing a nearer noise of 
people coming, she quickly unsheathed a dag- 
ger which she wore, and stabbing herself, died 
by her true Romeo's side. 

The watch by this tinaa had come up to the 



32 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

place. A page belonging to count Paris, 
who had witnessed the fight between his 
master and Romeo, had given the alarm, 
which had spread among the citizens, who 
went up and down the streets of Verona 
confusedly, exclaiming, a Paris, a Romeo, 
a Juliet, as the rumor had imperfectly 
reached them, till the uproar brought lord 
Montague and lord Capulet out of their 
beds, with the prince, to inquire into the 
causes of the disturbance. The friar had 
been apprehended by the watch, coming 
from the churchyard, trembling, sighing, 
and weeping, in a suspicious manner. A 
great multitude being assembled at the Cap- 
ulets' monument, the friar was demanded 
by the prince to deliver what he knew of 
these strange and disastrous accidents. 

In the presence of the old lords Monta- 
gue and Capulet, he related the story of 
their children's fatal love, the part he took 
in promoting their marriage, in the hope in 
that union to end the long quarrels between 
their families; how Romeo was husband to 
Juliet; and Juliet was Romeo's wife; before 
he could find a fit opportunity to divulge 
their marriage, another match was project- 
ed for Juliet, who, to avoid the crime of a 
second marriage, swallowed the sleeping 
draught (as he advised), and all thought 
her dead; meantime he wrote to Romeo to 
come and take her thence when the force 
of the potion should cease, and by what 
unfortunate miscarriage of the messen- 



h 



ROMEO AND JULIET, 33 



ger the letters never reached Romeo : further 
than this the friar could not follow the story, 
nor knew more than that, coming himself to de- 
liver Juliet from that place of death, he found 
the count Paris and Romeo slain. The remain- 
der of the transactions was supplied by the nar- 
ration of the page who had seen Paris and 
Romeo fight, and by the servant who came with 
Romeo from Verona, to whom this faithful lover 
had given letters to be delivered to his father 
In the event of his death, which made good the 
friar's words, confessing his marriage with Juliet, 
imploring the forgiveness of his parents, ac- 
knowledging the buying of the poison of the 
poor apothecary, and his intent in coming to 
the monument, to die, and lie with Juliet. All 
these circumstances agreed together to clear 
the friar from any hand he could be supposed 
to have had in these complicated slaughters, 
further than as the unintended consequences 
of his own well-meant, yet too artificial and 
subtle contrivances. 

And the prince, turning to these old lords, 
Montague and Capulet, rebuked them for their 
brutal and irrational enmities, and showed 
them what a scourge Heaven had laid upon 
such offences, that it had found means even 
through the love of their children to punish 
their unnatural hate. And these old rivals, no 
longer enemies, agreed to bury their long strife 
in their children's graves ; and lord Capulel 
requested lord Montague to give him his hand, 
calling him by the name of brother, as if in 



34 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARh.. 

acknowledgment of the union of their families 
by the marriage of the young Capulet and Mon- 
tague ; and saying that lord Montague's hand 
(in token of reconcilement) was all he demand- 
ed for his daughter's jointure : but lord Mon- 
tague said he would give him more, for he 
would raise her statue of pure gold, that while 
Verona kept its name, no figure should be so 
esteemed for its richness and workmanship as 
that of the true and faithful Juliet And lord 
Capulet in return said, that he would raise 
another statue to Romeo. So did these poor 
old lords, when it was too late, strive to outdo 
each other in mutual courtesies : while so 
deadly had been their rage and enmity in past 
times, that nothing but the fearful overthrow 
of their children (poor sacrifices to theii 
quarrels and dissensions) could remove the 
rooted hates and jealousies of the noble 
families. 



KING LEAR. 

Lear, king of Britain, had three daughters ^ 
Goneril, wife to the duke of Albany ; Regan, 
wife to the duke of Cornwall ; and Cordelia, a 
young maid, for whose love the king of France 
and duke of Burgundy were joint suitors, and 
were at his time making stay for that purpose 
in the court of Lear. 

The old king, worn out with age and the 
fatigues of government, he being more than 
fourscore years old, determined to take no 
further part in state affairs, but to leave the 
management to younger strengths, that he 
might have time to prepare for death, which 
must at no long period ensue. With this 
intent he called his three daughters to him, to 
know from their own lips which of them loved 
him best, that he might part his kingdom 
among them in such proportions as their affec- 
tion for him should seem to deserve. 

Goneril, the eldest, declared that she loved 
her father more than words could give out, 
that he was dearer to her than the light of her 
own eyes, dearer than life and liberty, with a 
deal of such professing stuff, which is easy to 
counterfeit where there is no real love, only a 
few fine words delivered with confidence being 

35 



36 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

wanted in hat case. The king, delighted to 
hear from her own mouth this assurance of hei 
love, and thinking that truly her heart went 
with it, in a fit of fatherly fondness bestowed 
upon her and her husband one-third of his 
ample kingdom. 

Then calling to him his second daughter, he 
demanded what she had to say. Regan, who 
was made of the same hollow metal as her 
sister, was not a whit behind in her professions, 
but rather declared that what her sister had 
spoken came short of the love which she pro 
fessed to bear for his highness : insomuch tha) 
she found all other joys dead, in comparison 
with the pleasure which she took in the love 
of her dear king and father. 

Lear blessed himself in having such loving 
children, as he thought : and could do no less> 
after the handsome assurances which Regan 
had made, than bestow a third of his kingdom 
upon her and her husband, equal in size to 
that which he had already given away to 
Goneril. 

Then turning to his youngest daughter Cor- 
delia, whom he called his joy, he asked what 
she had to say ; thinking, no doubt, that she 
would glad his ears with the same loving 
speeches which her sisters had uttered, or 
rather that her expressions would be so much 
stronger than theirs, as she had always been 
his darling, and favored by him above eithet 
of them. But Cordelia, disgusted with the 
ilatteryof her sisters, whose hearts she knew 



KING LEAR. 37 

were far from their lips, and seeing that all 
their coaxing speeches were only intended to 
wheedle the old king out of his dominions, 
that they and their husbands might reign in 
his lifetime, made no other reply but this, that 
she loved his majesty according to her duty, 
neither more nor less. 

The king, shocked with this appearance of 
ingratitude in his favorite child, desired her 
to consider her words, and to mend her speech, 
iest it should mar her fortunes. 

Cordelia then told her father, that he was 
her father, that he had given her breeding, and 
loved her, that she returned those duties back 
as was most fit, and did obey him, love him, 
and most honor him. But that she could 
not frame her mouth to such large speeches as 
her sisters had done, or promise to love nothing 
else in the world. Why had her sisters, hus- 
bands, if (as they said) they had no love for 
anything but their father ? If she should ever 
wed, she was sure the lord to whom she gave 
her hand would want half her love, half of her 
care and duty ; she should never marry like 
her sisters, to love her father all. 

Cordelia, who in earnest loved her old father 
even almost as extravagantly as her sisters 
pretended to do, would have plainly told him 
so at any other time, in more daughter-like and 
loving terms, and without these qualifications, 
which did indeed sound a little ungracious : 
but after the crafty flattering speeches of her 
sisters, which she had seen draw such extrav- 



38 TALES FROM SHAKSPEAKE. 

agant rewards, she thought the handsomes; 
thing she could do was to love and be sileni, 
This put her affection out of suspicion of 
mercenary ends, and showed that she loved, 
but not for gain ; and that her professions, thtj 
less ostentatious they were, had so much th<3 
more of truth and sincerity than her sisters'. 

This plainness of speech, which Lear called 
pride, so enraged the old monarch — who in his 
best of times always showed much of spleen 
and rashness, and in whom the dotage incident 
to old age had so clouded over his reason that 
he could not discern truth from flattery, nor a 
gay painted speech from words that came from 
the heart — that in a fury of resentment 
he retracted the third part of his kingdom 
which yet remained, and which he had 
reserved for Cordelia, and gave it away 
from her, sharing it equally between her two 
sisters and their husbands, the dukes of Albany 
and Cornwall : whom he now called to him, 
and in presence of all his courtiers, bestowing 
a coronet between them, invested them jointly 
with all the power, revenue, and execution of 
government, only retaining to himself the name 
of king ; all the rest of royalty he resigned : 
with this reservation, that himself, with a 
hundred knights for his attendants, was to be 
maintained by monthly course in each of his 
daughters' palaces in turn. 

So preposterous a disposal of his kingdom, 
so little guided by reason, and so much by 
passion, filled all his courtiers with astonish- 



KING LEAR. 39 

ment and sorrow ; but none of them had the 
courage to interpose between this incensed 
king and his wratli, except the earl of Kent, 
who was beginning to speak a good word for 
Cordelia, when the passionate Lear on pain of 
death commanded him to desist ; but the good 
Ken?t was not so to be repelled. He had been 
ever loyal to Lear, whom he had honored as a 
king, loved as a father, followed as a master : 
and had never esteemed his life further than 
as a pawn to wage against his royal master's 
enemies, nor feared to lose it when Lear's 
safety was the motive : nor now that Lfiar was 
most his own enemy, did this faithful servant 
of the king forget his old principles, but man- 
fully opposed Lear, to do Lear good ; and was 
unmannerly only because Lear was mad. He 
had been a most faithful counselor, in times 
past, to the king, and he besought him now, 
that he would see with his eyes (as he had 
done in many weighty matters), and go by his 
advice still ; and in his best consideration re- 
call this hideous rashness : for he would 
answer with his life, his judgment that Lear's 
youngest daughter did not love him least, nor 
were those empty-hearted whose low sound 
gave no token of hollowness. When power 
bowed to flattery, honor was bound to plain- 
ness. For Lear's threats, what could he do to 
\im, w'hose life was already at his service ? 
That should not hinder duty from speaking. 

The honest freedom of this good earl of 
Kent only stirred up the king's wrath the 



40 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE, 

more, and like a frantic patient who kilh his 
physician, and loves his mortal disease he 
banished this true servant, and allotted him 
but five days to make his preparations for 
departure, but if on the sixth his hated pcason 
was found wi1»hin the realm of Britain, that 
moment was to be his death. And Kent bade 
farewell to the king, and said, that since he 
chose to show himself in such fashion, it was 
but banishment to stay there ; and before he 
went, he recommended Cordelia to the protec- 
tion of the gods, the maid who had so rig^htly 
thought, and so discreetly spoken ; and only 
wished that her sisters' large speeches might 
be answered with deeds of love : and then he 
went, as he said, to shape his old course ^o a 
new country. 

The king of France and duke of Burgundy 
were now called in to hear the determination of 
Lear about his youngest daughter, and to know 
whether they would persist in their courtship 
to Cordelia, now that she was under her 
father's displeasure, and had no fortune but 
her own person to recommend her ; and the 
duke of Burgundy declined the match, and 
would not take her to wife upon such con- 
ditions : but the king of France, understanding 
what the nature of the fault bad been which 
had lost her the love of her father, that it was 
only a tardiness of speech, and the not being 
able to frame her tongue to flattery like her 
sisters, took this young maid by the hand, and 
saying that her virtues were a dowry above a 



KING LEAR. 41 

kingdom, bade Cordelia to take farewell of 
her sisters, and of her father, though he had 
been unkind, and she should go with him, and 
be queen of him and of fair France, and reign 
over fairer possessions than her sisters : and 
he called the duke of Burgundy in contempt 
a waterish duke, because his love for this 
young maid had in a moment run all away like 
water. 

Then Cordelia with weeping eyes took leave 
of her sisters, and besought them to love.their 
father well, and make good their professions ^ 
and they sullenly told her not to prescribe to 
them, for they knew their duty ; but to strive 
to content her husband, Vv^ho had taken her (as 
they tauntingly expressed it) as Fortune's 
alms. And Cordelia with a heavy heart de- 
parted, for she knew the cunning of her sisters, 
and she wished her father in better hands than 
she was about to leave him in. 

Cordelia was no sooner gone, than the devil- 
ish dispositions of her sisters began to show 
themselves in their true colors. Even before 
the expiration of the first month, which Lear 
was to spend by agreement with his eldest 
daughter Goner il, the old king began to fine 
out the difference between promises and per- 
formances. This wretch having got from her 
father all that he had to bestow, even to the 
giving away of the crown from off his head, 
began to grudge even those small remnants of 
royalty which the old man had reserved te 
himself, to please his fancy with the idea of? 



42 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

being still a king. She could not bear to see 
him and his hundred knights. Every time she 
met her father she put on a frowning coun- 
tenance ; and when the old man wanted to 
speak with her, she would feign sickness, or 
anything, to be rid of the sight of him ; for it 
was plain that she esteemed his old age a 
useless burden, and his attendants as un- 
necessary expense : not only she herself slack- 
ened in her expressions of duty to the king, 
but by her example, and (it is to be feared) 
not without her private instructions, her very 
servants affected to treat him with neglect, 
and would either refuse to obey his orders, or 
still more contemptuously pretend not to hear 
them. Lear could not but perceive this altera- 
tion in the behavior of his daughter, but he 
shut his eyes against it as long as he could, as 
people commonly are unwilling to believe the 
unpleasant consequences which their own 
mistakes and obstinacy have brought upon 
them. 

True love and fidelity are no more to be 
estranged by ///, than falsehood and hollow- 
heartedness can be conciliated by good usage. 
This eminently appears in the instance of the 
good earl of Kent, who, though banished by 
Lear, and his life made forfeit if he were 
found in Britain, chose to stay, and abide all 
consequences, as long as there was a chance 
of his being useful to the king his master. See 
to what mean shifts and disguises poor loyalt) 
is forced to submit sometimes; yet It counts 



KING LEAR. 43 

Dothingbase or unworthy, so as it can but do 
service where it owes an obligation • In the 
disguise of a serving-man, all his greatness 
and pomp laid aside, this good earl proffered 
his services to the king, who, not knowing 
him to be Kent in that disguise, but pleased 
with a certain plainness, or rather bluntness in 
his answers, which the earl put on (so different 
from that smooth oily flattery which he had so 
much reason to be sick o^, having found the 
effects not answerable in his daughter), a 
bargain was quickly struck, and Lear took 
Kent into his service by the name of Caius, as 
he called himself, never suspecting him to be 
his once great favorite, the high and mighty 
earl of Kent. 

This Caius quickly found means to show 
his fidelity and love to his royal master ; for 
Goneril's steward that same day behaving in 
a disrespectful manner to Lear, and giving 
Vim saucy looks and language, as no doubt he 
was secretly encouraged to do by his mistress, 
Caius not enduring to hear so open an affront 
put upon majesty, made no more ado but pres- 
ently tripped up his heels, and laid the un- 
mannerly slave in the kennel ; for which 
"^riendly service Lear became more and more 
attached to him. 

Nor was Kent the only friend Lear had. 
In his degree, and as far as so insignificant a 
personage could show his love, the poor fool, 
or jestcr,thathad been of his palace while Lear 
had a palace, as it was the custom of kings and 



44 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

great personages at that time to keep a fool (as 
he was called) to make them sport after serious 
business : this poor fool clung to Lear after he 
had. given away his crown, and by his witty 
savings would keep up his good humor, though 
he could not refrain sometimes from jeering 
at his master, for his imprudence in uncrown- 
ing himself, and giving all away to his daugh- 
ters : at which time, as he rhymingly expressed 
it. these daughters 

For sudden joy did weep, 

And he for sorrow sung, 
That such a khig should play bo-peep, 
And go the fools among. 

And in such wild sayings, and scraps of songs, 
of which he had plenty, this pleasant honest 
fool poured out his heart even in the presence 
of Goneril herself, in many a bitter taunt and 
^est which cut to the quick : such as compar- 
ing the king to the hedge-sparrow, who feeds 
the young of the cuckoo till they grow old 
enough, and then has its head bit off for its 
pains : and saying, that an ass may know when 
the cart draws the horse (meaning that Lear's 
daughters, that ought to go behind, now ranked 
before their father) ; and that Lear was no 
longer Lear, but the shadow of Lear • for 
which free speeches he was once or twice 
threatened to be whipped. 

The coolness and falling off of respect which 
Lear had begun to perceive were not all 
which this foolish fond father was to suffer 
from his unworthy daughter, she now plainly 



KING LEAR. 45 

told him that his staying in her palace was ii> 
convenient so long as he insisted upon keeping 
up an establisliment of a hundred kniglits' 
that this establishment was viseless and ex- 
pensive, and only served to fill her court with 
riot and feastings ; and she prayed him thav 
he would lessen their number, and keep none 
but old men about him, such as himself, and 
fitting his age. 

Lear at first could not believe his eyes 01 
ears, nor that it was his daughter who spoke 
so unkindly. He could not believe that she 
who had received a crown from him could 
seek to cut off his train, and grudge him the 
respect due to his old age. But she persisting 
in her undutiful demand, the old man's rage 
Vt^as so excited, that he called her a detested 
kite, and said that she had spoke an untruth : 
and so indeed she did, for the hundred knights 
were all men of choice behavior and sobriety 
of manners, skilled in all particulars of duty 
and not given to rioting ^nd fea ting as sh, 
said. And he bid his horses to be prepared, 
for he would go to his other daughter, Regan, 
he and his hundred knights : and he spoke of 
ingratitude, and said it was a marble-hearted 
devil, and showed more hideous in a child 
than the sea-monster. And he cursed his 
eldest daughter Goneril so as was terrble to 
hear : praying that she might never have a 
child, or if she had, that it might live to return 
that scorn and contempt upon her which she 
had shown to him : that she might feel how 



46 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

sharper than a serpent's tooth it was to have 
a thankless child. And Goneril's husband 
the duke of Albany, beginning to excuse him- 
self for any share which Lear might suppose 
he had in the unkindness, Lear would not hear 
him out, but in a rage ordered his horses to be 
saddled, and set out with his followers for the 
abode of Regan, his other daughter. And 
Lear thought to himself how small the fault 
of Cordelia now appeared in comparison with 
her sister's, he wept and was ashamed such a 
creature as Goneril should have so much 
power over his manhood as to make him weep. 
Regan and her husband were keeping their 
court in great pomp and state at their palace; 
and Lear despatched his servant Caius with 
letters to his daughter, that she might be pre- 
pared for his reception, while he and his train 
followed after. But it seems that Goneril had 
been beforehand with him, sending letters 
also to Regan, accusing her father of way- 
wardness and ill humors, and advising her not 
to receive so great a train as he was bringing 
with him. This messenger arrived at the same 
time with Caius, and Caius and he met; and 
who should it be but Caius's old enemy the 
steward, whom he had formerly tripped up by 
the heels for his saucy behavior to Lear. 
Caius not liking the fellow's look, andsuspect' 
ing what he came for, began to revile him, and 
challenged him to fight, which the fellow re- 
fusing, Caius, in a fit of honest passion, beat 



KING LEAR. 47 

him soundly, as such a mischief-maker and 
carrier of wicked messages deserved: which 
coming to the ears of Regan and her husband, 
ordered Caius to be put in the stocks, though 
he was a messenger from the king her father, 
and in that character demanded highest re- 
spect; so the first thing the king saw when he 
entered the castle was his faithful servant 
Caius sitting in that disgraceful situation. 

This was but a bad omen of the reception 
he was to expect; but a worse followed when 
upon inquiry for his daughter and her hus- 
band, he was told they were weary with travel- 
ing and could not see him: and when lastly, 
upon his insisting in a positive and angry 
manner to see them they came to greet hira^ 
whom should he see in their company but the 
hated Goneril, who had come to tell her story, 
and set her sister against the king her father! 

This sight much moved the old man, and 
still more to see Regan take her by the hand: 
and he asked Goneril if she was not ashamed 
to look upon his old white beard. And Regan 
advised him to go home again with Goneril 
and live with her peaceably (dismissing half of 
his attendants, and ask her forgiveness; for 
he was old and wanted discretion, and must 
be ruled and led by persons that had more 
discretion than himself. And Lear showed 
how preposterous that would sound, if 
he were to down on his knees, and beg of 



48 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

his own daughter for food and raiment, and 
he argued against such an unnatural depend- 
ence, declaring his resolution never to return 
with her, but to stay where he was with Regan, 
he and his hundred knights : for he said that 
she had not forgot the half of the kingdom 
which he had endowed her with, and that her 
eyes were not fierce like Goneril's, but mild ' 
and kind. And he said that rather than return 
to Goneril with half his train cut off, he would 
go over to France, and get a wretched pension 
of the king there, who had married his young- 
est daughter without a portion. 

But he was mistaken in expecting kinder 
treatment of Regan than he had experienced 
from her sister Goneril. As if willing to out- 
Jo her sister in unfilial behavior, she declared 
that she thought fifty knights too many to wait 
upon him : that five-and-twenty were enough. 
Then Lear, nigh heartbroken, turned to 
Goneril, and said that he would go back with 
her, for her fifty doubled five-and-twenty, and 
so her love was twice as much as Regan's. 
But Goneril excused herself, and said, what 
need of so many as five-and-twenty ? or even 
ten ? or five ? when he might be waited upon 
by her servants, or her sister's servants ? So 
these two wicked daughters, as if they strove 
to exceed each other in cruelty to their old 
father who had been so good to them, by little 
and little would have abated him of all his 
train, all respect (little enough for him that 
once commanded a kingdom) which was left 



KING LEAR. 49 

him to show that he had once been a king ! 
Not that a splendid train is essential to happi- 
ness, but from a king to a beggar is a hard 
change, from commanding millions to be with- 
out one attendant ; and it was the ingratitude in 
his daughters denying it, more than what he 
would suffer by the want of it, which pierced 
this poor old king to the heart : insotnuch, that 
with this double ill usage, and vexation for 
having so foolishly given away a kingdom, his 
wits began to be unsettled, and while *ie said 
he knew not what, he vowed revenge against 
those unnatural hags, and to make examples 
of them that should be a terror to the earth ! 

While he was thus idly threatening what 
his weak aim could never execute, night came 
on, and a loud storm of thunder and lightning 
with rain ; and his daughters still persisting in 
their resolution not to admit his followers, he 
called for his horses, and chose rather to 
encounterthe utmost fury of the storm abroad, 
than stay under the same roof with these un- 
grateful daughters : and they, saying that the 
injuries which willful men procur to themselves 
are their just punishment, suffered him to go 
in that condition, and shut their doors upon 
him. 

The winds were high, and the rain and storm 
increased, when the old man sallied forth to 
combat with the elements, less sharp than his 
daughters' unkindness. For many miles about 
there was scarce a bush ; and there upon a 
heath, exposed to the fury of the storm in a 

A. 



50 



T^LES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



dark night, did King Lear wander out, and 
defy the winds and thunder; he bid the winds 
to blow the earth into the sea, or swell the 
waves of the sea, till they drowned the earth, 
that no token might remain or any ungrateful 
animal as man. The old king was now left 
with no other companion than the poor fool, 
who still abided with him, his merry conceits 
striving to outjest misfortune saying it was 
but a naughty night to swim in, the king had 
better go in and ask his daughter's blessing: 

But he that lias a little tiny wit, 
^A/Uh hpiVh ho »ho «Mnrl rmd the raiv ' 
Must maxe conrent witn nis lortunes nt, 
Though the rain it raineth every day : 

and swearing it was a brave night to cool a 
lady's pride. 

Thus poorly accompanied, this once great 
monarch was found by his ever- faithful ser- 
vant the good earl of Kent, now transformed 
to Caius, who ever followed close at his side, 
though the king did not know him to be the 
earl; and he said, "Alas! sir, are you here? 
creatures that love night, love not such nights 
as these. This dreadful storm has driven the 
beasts to their hiding places. Man's nature 
cannot endure the affliction or the ear. " And 
Lear rebuked him and said, these lesser evils 
were not felt, where greater malady was fixed , 
v/hen mind is at ease, the body has leisuri; 
to be delicate; but the tempest in his mind 
did t- ike all feelings else from his senses, but oL 



KING LEAR. 51 

that which beat at his heart. And he spoke 
of filial ingrati'ude, and said it was all one as 
if the mouth should tear the hand for lifting 
food to it • for parent were hands and food 
and everything to children. 

But the good Caius still persisting in his 
entreaties that the king would not stay out in 
the open air, at last persuaded him to enter a 
little wretched hovel which stood upon the 
heath, where the fool first enterivig, suddenly 
ran back terrified, saying that Le had seen a 
spirit. But upon examination this spirit 
proved to be nothing more than a poor Bedlam 
beggar, who had crept into this deserted hovel 
for shelter, and with his talk about devils fright- 
ed the fool, one of those poor lunatics who 
are either mad, or feign to be so, the better to 
extort charity from the compassionate country- 
people, who go about the country, calling 
themselves poor Tom and poor Turlygood, say- 
ing, " Who gives anything to poor Tom ? " stick 
ing pins and nails and sprigs of rosemary into 
their arms to make them bleed ; and with such 
horrible actions, partly by prayers, and partly 
with lunatic curses, they move or terrify the 
ignorant country-folks into giving them alms. 
This poor fellow was such a one ; and the king 
seeing him in so wretched a plight, with noth- 
ing but a blanket about his loins to cover his 
nakedness, could not be persuaded but that 
the fellow was some father who had given all 
away to his daughters, and brought himself to 
that pass ; for nothing he thought could bring 



52 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



a man to such wretchedness but the having 
unkind daughters. 

And from this and many such wild speeches 
which he uttered, the good Caius plainly per- 
ceived that he was not in his perfect mind, but 
that his daughters' ill-usage had really made 
him go mad. And now the loyalty of this 
worthy earl of Kent showed itself in more essen- 
tial services than he had hitherto found oppor- 
tunity to perform. For with the assistance of 
some of the king's attendants who remained 
loyal, he had the person of his royal master 
removed at daybreak to the castle of Dover, 
where his own friends and influence, as earl of 
Kent, chiefly lay : and himself embarking for 
France, hastened to the court of Cordelia, and 
did there in £uch moving terms represent the 
pitiful condition of her royal father, and set 
out in such lively colors the inhumanity of 
her sisters, that this good and loving child with 
many tears besought the king her husband, 
that he would give her leave to embark for 
England with a sufficient power to subdue these 
daughters and their husbands, and restore the 
king her father to his throne : which being 
granted, she set forth, and with a royal army 
landed at Dover. 

Lear, having by some chance escaped from 
the guardians which the good earl of Kent had 
put over him to take care of him in his lunacy, 
was found by some of Cordelia's train, wander- 
ing about the fields near Dover, in a pitiable 
condition stark mad and singing; aloud to him 



KING LEAR. 53 

self, with a crown upon his head which he 
had made of straw, and nettles, and other wild 
weeds that he had picked up in the corn-fields. 
By the advice of the physicians, Cordelia, 
though earnestly desirous of seeing her father, 
was prevailed upon to put off the meeting, till, 
by sleep and the operation of herbs which they 
gave him, he should be restored to greater 
composure. By the aid of these skilful phy- 
sicians, to whom Cordelia promised all her 
gold and jewels for the recovery of the old 
king, Lear was soon In a condition to see his 
daughter. 

A tender sight it was to see the meeting 
between this father and daughter : to see the 
struggles between the joy of this poor old king 
at beholding again his once darling child, and 
the shame at receiving such filial kindness 
from her whom he had cast off for so small a 
fault in his displeasure ; both these passions 
struggling with the remains of his malady, 
which in his half-crazed brain sometimes made 
him that he scarce rernembered where he was, 
or who it was that so kindly kissed him and 
spoke to him : and then he would beg the 
standers-by not to laugh at him, if he were 
mistaken in thinking this lady to be his 
daughter Cordelia ! And then to see him fall 
on his knees to beg pardon of his child ; and 
she, good lady, kneeling all the while to ask a 
blessing of him, and telling him that it did not 
become him to kneel, but it was her duty, for 
she was his child, his true and verv child. 



54 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



Cordelia ! And she kissed him (as she said") 
to kiss away all her sisters' unkindness, and 
said that they might be ashamed of themselves, 
to turn their old kind father with his white 
beard out into the cold air, when her enemy's 
dog, though it had bit her (as she prettily 
expressed it), should have stayed by her fire 
such a night as that, and warmed himself. 
And she told her father how she had come 
from France with purpose to bring him assist- 
ance ; and he said, that she must forget and 
forgive, for he was old and foolish, and did not 
know what he did ; but that to be sure she 
had great cause not to love him, but her sisters 
had none. And Cordelia said, that she had 
no cause, no more than they had. 

So we will leave this old king in the protec- 
tion of this dutiful and loving child, where, by 
the help of sleep and medicine, she and her 
physicians at length succeeded in winding up 
the untuned and jarring senses which the 
cruelty of his other daughters had so violently 
shaken. Let us return to say a word or two 
about those cruel daughters. 

These monsters of ingratitude, who had 
been so false to their own father, could not be 
expected to prove more faithful to their own 
husbands. They soon grew tired of paying 
even the appearance of duty and affection, and 
in an open way showed they had fixed their 
loves upon another. It happened that the 
object of their guilty loves was the same. It 
was Edmund, a natural son of the late earl of 



KING LEAR. 55 

Gloucester, who by his treacheries had suc- 
ceeded in disinheriting his brother Edgar, the 
lawful heir, from his earldom, and by his 
wicked practices was now earl himself : a 
wicked man, and a fit object for the love of 
such wicked creatures as Goneril and Regan. 
It falling out about this time that the duke of 
Cornwall, Regan's husband, died, Regan im- 
mediately declared her intention of wedding 
this earl of Gloucester, which rousing the 
jealousy of her sister, to whom as well as to 
Regan this wicked earl had at sundry times 
professed love, Goneril found means to make 
away with her sister by poison : but being 
detected in her practices, ^nd imprisoned by 
her husband the duke of Albany for this deed, 
and for her guilty passion for the earl which 
had come to his ears, she in a fit of disap- 
pointed love and rage, shortly put an end to 
her own life. Thus the justice of Heaven at 
last overtook these wicked daughters. 

While the eyes of all men were upon this 
event, admiring the justice displayed in their 
deserved deaths, the same eyes were suddenly 
taken off from this sight to admire at the 
mysterious ways of the same power in the 
melancholy fate of the young and virtuous 
daughter, the lady Cordelia, whose good deeds 
did seem to deserve a more fortunate conclu- 
sion ; but it is an awful truth, that innocence 
and piety are not always successful in this 
world. The forces which Goneril and Regan 
had sent out under the command of the bad 



56 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

earl of Gloucester were victorious, and Cor- 
delia, by the practices of this wicked earl, who 
did not like that any should stand between 
him and the throne, ended her life in prison. 
Thus Heaven took this innocent lady to itself 
in her young years, after showing her to the 
world an illustrious example of filial duty. 
Lear did not long survive this kind child. 

Before he died, the good earl of Kent, who 
had still attended his old master's steps 
from the first of his daughters' ill usage to this 
sad period of his decay, tried to make him un- 
derstand that it was he who had followed him 
under the name of Caius; but Lear's care- 
crazed brain at that time could not compre- 
hend how that could be, or how Kent and 
Caius could be the same person: so Kent 
thought it needless to trouble him with ex- 
planations at such a time; and Lear soon 
after expiring,this faithful servant to the king, 
between age and grief for his old master's 
vexations, soon followed him to the grave. 

How the judgment of heaven overtook the 
earl of Gloucester, whose treasons were dis- 
covered and himself slain in combat with his 
brother, the lawful earl; and how Goneril's 
husband, duke of Albany, who was innocent 
of the death of Cordelia and had never en- 
couraged his lady in her wicked proceedings 
against her father, ascended the throne, after 
the death of Lear, is needless here to narrate; 
Lear and his Three Daughters being dead, 
whose adventures alone concern our story. 



OTHELLO. 

Brabantio, the rich senator of Venice, had 
a fair daughter, the gentle Desdemona. She 
was sought to by divers suitors, both on ac- 
count of her many virtuous qualities and for 
her rich expectations. But among the suitors 
of her own clime and complexion she saw none 
whom she could affect : for this noble lady, 
who regarded the mind more than the features 
of men, with a singularity rather to be admired 
than imitated, had chosen for the object of 
her affections a Moor, a black whom her 
father loved, and often invited to his house. 

Neither is Desdemona to be altogether con- 
demned for the unsuitableness of the person 
whom she selected for her lover. Bating that 
Othello was black, the noble Moor wanted 
nothing which might recommend him to the 
affections of the greatest lady. He was a 
soldier, and a brave one ; and by his conduct 
in bloody wars against the Turks had risen to 
ihe rank of general in the Venetian service, 
and was esteemed and trusted by the state. 

He had been a traveler, and Desdemona 
(as is the manner of ladies) loved to hear him 
tell the story of his adventures, which he would 
run through from his earliest recollection ; the 

57 



58 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE, 

battles, sieges, and encounters which he had 
passed through ; the perils he had been ex- 
posed to by land and by water ; his hairbreadth 
escapes when he had entered a breaoh, or 
marched up to the mouth of a cannon , and 
how he had been taken prisoner by the inso- 
lent enemy, and sold to slavery : how ho de- 
meaned himself in that state, and how he 
escaped : all these accounts, added to the 
narration of the strange things he had seen in 
foreign countries, the vast wildernesses and 
romantic caverns, the quarries, the rocks and 
mountains, whose heads are in the clouds ; of 
the savage nations ; the cannibals who are 
man-eaters, and a race of people in Africa 
whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders : 
these travelers' stories would so enchain the 
attention of Desdemona, that if she were called 
off at any time by household affairs, she would 
despatch with all haste that business, and 
return, and with a greedy ear devour Othello's 
discourse. And once he took advantage of a 
pliant hour and drew from her a prayer, that 
he would tell her the whole story of his life at 
large, of which she had heard so much, but only 
by parts : to which he consented, and beguiled 
her of many a tea:, when he spoke of some 
distressful stroke which his youth suffered. 

His story being done, she gave him for his 
pains a world of sighs ; she swore a pretty 
oath, that it was all passing strange, and piti- 
ful, wondrous pitiful : she wished (she said) 
she had not heard it, yet she wished that 



OTHELLO. 59 

Heaven had made her such a man : and then 
she thanked hhn, and told him, if he had a 
friend who loved hei. he had only to teach him 
how to tell his story, and that would woo her. 
Upon this hint, delivered not with more frank- 
ness than modesty, accompanied with a certain 
bewitching prettiness and blushes which 
Othello could not but understand, he spoke 
more openly of his love, and in this golden 
opportunity gained the consent of the generous 
lady Desdemona privately to marry him. 

Neither Othello's color nor his fortune was 
such that it could be hoped Brabantio would 
accept him for a son-in-law. He had left his 
daughter free ; but he did expect that, as the 
manner of noble Venetian ladies was, she 
would choose ere long a husband of senatorial 
rank or expectations ; but in this he was de- 
ceived ; Desdemona loved the Moor, though 
he was black, and devoted her heart and fort- 
unes to his valiant parts and qualities : so 
was her heart subdued to an implicit devotion 
to the man she had selected for a husband, 
that his very color, which to all but this dis- 
cerning lady would have proved an insur- 
mountable objection, was by her esteemed 
above all the white skins and clear com- 
plexions of the young Venetian nobility, hei 
suitors. 

Their marriage, which, though privately car 
ried, couldnot long be kept a secret, came to 
the ears of the old man, Brabantio, who ap 
peared in a solemn council of the senate as ar 



60 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

accuser of the Moor Othello, who by spells 
and witchcraft (he maintained) had seduced 
the affections of the fair Desdemona to marr} 
him, without the consent of her father, and 
against the obligations of hospitality. 

At this juncture of time it happened thai 
the state of Venice had immediate need of the 
services of Othello, news having arrived that 
the Turks with mighty preparation, had fitted 
out a fleet, which was bending its course to the 
island of Cyprus, with intent to regain thai 
strong post from the Venetians, who then held 
it : in this emergency the state turned its eyes 
upon Othello, who alone was deemed adequate 
to conduct the defense of Cyprus against the 
Turks. So that Othello, now summoned be 
fore the senate, stood in their presence at once 
as a candidate for a great state employment, 
and as a culprit charged v/ith offenses which 
by the laws of Venice were made capital. 

The age and senatorial character of oiu 
Brabantio commanded a most patient hearing 
from that grave assembly ; but the incensed 
father conducted his accusation with so much 
intemperance; producing likelihoods and alle 
gations for proofs, that, when Othello wa? 
called upon for his defense, he had only to 
relate a plain tale of the course of his love .; 
which he did with such an artless eloquence, 
lecounting the whole story of his wooing, as 
we have related it above, and delivered his 
speech with so noble a plainness (the evidence 
of truth), that the duke, who sat as chief judge 



OTHELLO, fJl 

could not help confessing, that a tale so told 
would have won his daughter too : and the 
spells and conjurations which Othello had 
used in his cou tship plainly appeared to have 
Deen no more than the honest arts of men in 
love ; and the only witc craft which he had 
used, the faculty of telling a soft tale to win a 
ady's ear. 

This statement of Othello was confirmed by 
the testimony of the lady Desdemona herself, 
who appeared in court, and professing a duty 
to her father for life and education, challenged 
leave of him to profess a yet higher duty to her 
lord and husband, even so much as her mother 
had shown in preferring him (Brabantio) above 
her father. 

The old senator, unable to maintain his plea, 
called the Moor to him with many expressions 
of sorrow, and, as an act of necessity, be- 
stowed upon him his daughter, whom, if he had 
been free to withhold her (he told him) he 
would with all his heart have kept from him ; 
adding, that he was glad at soul that he had 
no other child, for this behavior of Desdemona 
would have taught him to be a tyrant, and hang 
clogs on them for her desertion. 

This difficulty being got over, Othello, to 
whom custom had rendered the hardships of 
a military life as natural as food and rest are 
to other men, readily undertooic the manage- 
ment of the wars in Cyprus : and Desdemona, 
preferring the honor of her lord (though 
with danger) before the indulgence of thosa 



62 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

idle delights in which new-married people 
sisually waste their time, cheerfully consented 
I© his gom^. 

No sooner were Othello and his lady landed 
in Cyprus, than news arrived that a desperate 
tempest had dispersed the Turkish fleet, and 
thus the "sland was secure from any immediate 
apprehension of ?n attack. Bui the war which 
Othello was to suffer was now beginning ; and 
the enemies which malice stirred up against 
this innocent lady proved in their nature more 
deadly than strangers or infidels. 

Among all the general's friends no one pos- 
sessed the confidence of Othello more entirely 
than Cassio, Michael Cassio was a young 
soldier, a Florentine, gay, amorous, and of 
pleasing address, favorite qualities with 
women ; he was handsome, and eloquent, and 
exactly such a person as might alarm the jeal- 
ousy of a man advanced in years (as Othello 
in some measure was), who had married a 
young and beautiful wife ; but Othello was as 
free from jealousy as he was noble, and as in- 
capable of suspecting as of doing, a base 
action. Ke had employed this Cassio in his 
love affair with Dcsdemona, and Cassio had 
been a sort of go-between in his suit : for 
Othello, fearinj that himself had not those soft 
parts of conversation which please ladies, and 
finding these qualities in his friend, would, 
often depute Cassio to go (as he phrased it) a 
courting for him : such innocent simplicity 
being an honor rather than a blemish to the 



OTHELLO. 63 

character of the valiant Moor. No wonder 
xi next to Othello himself (but at far distance, 
as beseems a virtuous wife) the gentle Des- 
demona loved and trusted Cassio. Nor had 
the marriage of this couple made any differ- 
ence in their behavior to Michael Cassio. He 
frequented their house, his free and rattling 
talk was no unpleasing variety to Othello, 
who was himself of a more s rious temper: 
for such tempers are observed often to delight 
in their contraries, as a relief from the op- 
pressive excess of their own: Desdemonaand 
Cassio would talk, laugh together, as in the 
days when he went courting for his friend. 
Othello had lately promoted Cassio to be 
lieutenant, a place of trust, and nearest to the 
general's person. This promotion gave great 
offense to lago an older officer, who thought 
he had a better claim than Cassio, and would 
often ridicule Cassio, as a fellow fit only for 
the company of ladies, and one that knew no 
mors of the art of war, or how to set an army 
in array for battle, than a girl. lago hated 
Cassio, and hated Othello as well for favoring 
Cassio as for an unjust suspicion which he had 
lightly taken up against Othello, that the 
Moor was too fond of lago's wife Emilia. 
From these imaginary provocations the plot- 
ting mind of lago conceived a horrid scheme 
of revenge, which should involve both CassiOj 
the Moor, and Desdemona in ruin. 



64 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

I ago was artful, had studied human nature 
deeply, and he knew that of all the torments 
which afflict the mind of man (and far beyond 
bodily torture), the pains of jealousy were the 
most intolerable, and had the sorest sting. 
If he could succeed in making Othello jealous 
of Cassio, he thought it would be an exqui- 
site plot of revenge and might end in the death 
of Cassio or Othello, or both; he cared not. 

The arrival of the general and his lady in 
Cyprus, meeting with the news of the disper- 
sion of the enemy's fleet, made a holiday in 
the island. Everybody gave themselves in 
to feasting and making merry. Wine flowed 
and cups went round to the health of Othello, 
and his lady the fair Desdemona. 

Cassio had the direction of the guard that 
night, with a charge from Othello to keep the 
soldiers from excess in drinking, that no brawl 
might arise, to fright the inhabitants, or dis- 
gust them with the new-landed forces. That 
night lago began his deep-laid plans of mis- 
chief; under color of loyalty and love to the 
general, he enticed Cassio to make rather too 
free with the bottle (a great fault in an officer 
upon guard. ) Cassio for a time resisted, but 
he could not long hold out against the honest 
freedom which lago knew how to put on, but 
J^ept swallowing glass after glass (as lago still 
plied himwith drink and encouraging songs), 
and Cassio's tongue ran over in praise of the 



OTHELLa 65 

lady Desdemom, whom he again and agaiE 
toasted, affirming that she was a most exquisite 
lady : until at last the en my which he put into 
his mouth stole away brams ; and upon some 
provocation given him by a fellow whom I ago 
had set on, swords were drawn, and Montano, 
a worthy officer who interfered to appease the 
dispute, was wounded in the scuffle. The riot 
now began to be general, and lago, who had 
set on foot the mischief, was foremost, in 
spreading the alarm, causing the castle-bell 
to be rung (as if some dangerous mutiny, 
instead of a slight drunken quarrel, had 
arisen) : the alarm-bell ringing awakened 
Othello, who, dressing in a hurry, and coming 
to the scene of action, questioned Cassio of the 
cause. Cassio was now come to himself, tht; 
effect of the wine having a little gone off, but 
was too much ashamed to reply ; and lago, 
pretending a great reluctance to accuse Cassio, 
but as it were forced into it by Othello, who 
insisted to know the truth, gave an account of 
the whole matter (leaving out his own share in 
it, which Cassio was too far gone to remember) 
in such a manner, as while he seemed to make 
Cassio's offense less did indeed make it appear 
greater than it was. The result was, that 
Othello, who was a strict observer of discipline, 
was compelled to take away Cassio's place of 
lieutenant from him. 

Thus did lago's first artifice succeed com- 
pletely ; he had now undermined his hated 
rival, and thrust him out of his place ; but a 
5 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARis.. 

further use was hereafter to be made of the 
adventure of this disastrous night. 

Cassio, whom this misfortune had entirely 
sobered, now lamented to his seemi:ng friend 
lago, that he should have been such a fool a? 
to transform himself into a beast. He wa? 
undone, for how could he ask the general foi 
his place again ! he would tell him he was a 
drunkard. He despised himself. lago, af 
fecting to make light of it, said that he, or any 
man living, might be drunk upon occasion ; it 
remained now to make the best of -a bad 
bargain ; the general's wife was now the 
general, and could do anything with Othello ; 
that he were best to apply to the lady Desde- 
mona to mediate for him with her lord ; that 
she was of a frank, obliging disposition, and 
would readily undertake a good office of this 
sort, and set Cassio right again in the general's 
favor ; and then this crack in their love 
would be made stronger than ever, A good 
advice of lago, if it had not been given for 
wicked purposes, which will after appear. 

Cassio did as lago advised him, and made 
application to the lady Desdemona, who was 
easy to be won over in any honest suit; and 
she promised Cassio that she would be his 
solicitor with her lord, and rather die than 
give up his cause. This she immediately set 
about in so earnest and pretty a manner, that 
Othello, who was mortally offended with 
Cassio, could not put her off. When he 
pleaded delay, and that it was too soon to 



OTHELLO. 



67 



pardon such an offender, she would not be 
beat back, but insisted that it should be the 
o.ext night, or the morning after, or the next 
morning to that at farthest Then she showed 
how penitent and humbled poor Cassio was, 
and that his offense did not deserve so sharp 
a check. And wlien Othello still hung 
back, " What ! my lord," said she, " that I 
should have so much to do to plead forCassio, 
Michael Cassio, that cam^ a courting foi you 
and oftentimes, when I have spoken in dis- 
praise of you, has taken your part! I count 
this but a little thing to ask of you. • When I 
mean to try your love indeed, I shall ask a 
weighty matter." Othello could deny nothing 
to such a pleader, and only requesting that 
Desdemona would leave the time to him, 
promised to receive Michael Cassio again into 
favor. 

It happened that Othello and lago had 
entered into the room where Desdemona was, 
just as Cassio, who had been imploring hei 
intercession, was departing at the opposite 
door ; and lago, who was full of art, said in a 
low voice, as if to himself, " I like not that." 
Othello took no great notice of what he said \ 
indeed the conference which immediately 
took place with his lady put it out of his head ; 
but he remembered it afterwards. For when 
Desdemona was gone, lago, as if for mere 
satisfaction of his thought, questioned Othello 
whether Michael Cassio, when Othello was 
courting his lady, knew of his love. To thia 



58 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

the general answering in the affirmative, aad 
adding, that he had gone between them very 
often during the courtship, lago knittea his 
brow, as if he had got fresh light of some 
terrible matter, and cried, " Indeed ! " This 
brouglit into Othello's mind the words which 
lago had let fall upon entering the room and 
seeing Cassio with Desdemona j and he began 
to think there was some meaning in all this : 
for he deemed lago to be a just man, and full 
of love and honesty, and what in a false knave 
would be tricks, in him seemed to be the 
natural workings of an honest mind, big with 
something too great for utterance : and Otnello ■ 
prayed lago to speak what he knew, and to 
give his worst thoughts words. " And what," 
said lago, " if some thoughts very vile should 
have intruded into my breast, as where is the 
palace into which foul things do not enter? " 
Then lago went on to say, what a pity it were 
if any trouble should arise to Othello out of 
his imperfect observations ; that it would not 
be for Othello's peace to know his thoughts ; 
that people's good names were not to be taken 
away for slight suspicions ; and when Othello's 
curiosity was raised almost to distraction with 
these hints and scattered words, lago, as if 
in earnest care for Othello's peace of mind, 
besought him to beware of jealousy ; with such 
art did this villain raise suspicions in the 
unguarded Othello, by the very caution which 
he pretended to give him against suspicion, 
"I know." said Othello, "that my wife is fain 



OTHELLO. 69 

ioves company and feasting, is free of speech, 
sings, plays, and dances well ; but where 
virtue is these qualities are virtuous. I must 
have proof before I think her dishonest." 
Then lago, as if glad that Othello was slow to 
believe ill of his lady, frankly declared that he 
had no proof, but begged Othello to observe 
her behavior well, when Cassio was by; not 
to be jealous nor too secure neither, for that 
he (lago) knew the dispositions of the Italian 
ladies, his countrywomen, better than Othello 
could do ; and that in Venice tlie wives let 
heaven see many pranks they dared not show 
their husbands. Then he artfully insinuated, 
that Desdemona deceived her father in mar- 
rying with Othello, and carried it so closely, 
that the poor old man thought that witchcraft 
had been used. Othello was much moved 
with this argument, which, brought the matter 
home to him, for if she had deceived her father, 
why might she not deceive her husband ? 

lago begged pardon for having moved him ; 
but Othello, assuming an indifference, while 
he was really shaken with inward grief at 
lago's words, begged him to go on, which 
lago did with many apologies, as if unwilling 
to produce anything against Cassio, whom he 
called his friend : he then came strongly to 
the point, and reminded Othello how Desde- 
mona had refused many suitable matches of 
her own clime and complexion, and had married 
him, a Moor, which showed unnatural in her. 
and proved her to haV2 a headstrong will 



70 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

and when her better judgment returned, how 
probable it was she should fall upon comparing 
Othello with the fine forms and clear white 
complexions of the young Italians her country- 
men. He concluded with advising Othello to 
put off his reconcilement with Cassio a little 
longer, and in the meanwhile to note with 
what earnestness Desdemona should intercede 
tn his behalf ; for that much would be seen in 
that. So mischievously did this artful villain 
lay his plots to turn the gentle qualities of 
this innocent lady into her destruction, and 
make a net for her out of her own goodness to 
entrap her : first setting Cassio on to entrea« 
her mediation, and then out of that very medi- 
ation contriving stratagems for her ruin. 

The conference ended with lago's begging 
Dthello to account his wife innocent until 
he had more decisive proof ; and Othello 
promised to be patient ; but from that moment 
the deceived Othello never tasted content of 
mind. Poppy, nor the juice of mandragora, 
nor all the sleeping potions in the world, could 
ever again restore to him that sweet rest wh ch 
he had enjoyed but yesterday. His occupati m 
sickened upon him. He no longer took delight 
in arms. His heart, that used to be roused 
at the sight of troops, and banners, and battle 
array, andwould stirand leap atthe soundof a 
drum, or a trumpet, or a neighing war-horse, 
seemed to have lost all that pride and ambi 
tion, which are a soldier's virtue ; and his 
military ardor and all his old joys fors-->oJ-' 



OTHELLO. 71 

him. Sometimes he thought his wife honest, 
and at times he thought her not so , sometimes 
he tliought lago just, and at times he thought 
him not so ; then he would wisli that he Iiad 
never known of it ; he was not the worse for 
Ler loving Cassio, so long as he knew it not : 
•orn in pieces with these distracting thoughts, 
he once laid hold or lago's throat, and de- 
manded proof of Desdemona's guilt, or threat- 
r-ned instant death for his having belied her. 
Sago, feigning indignation that his honesty 
should be taken for a vice, asked Othello, if he 
had not sometimes seen a handkerchief spotted 
v,rith strawberries in his wife's hand, Othello 
answered, that he had given her such a one, 
and that it was his first gift. " That same 
handkerchief," said lago, " did I see Michael 
Cassio this day wipe his face with," " If it 
be as you say," said Othello, " I will not rest 
till a wide revenge swallow them up : and firstv 
for a token of your fidelity, I expect that 
Cassio shall be put to death within three days; 
and for that fair devil [meaning his lady], I 
will withdraw and devise some swift means of 
death for her." 

Trifles light as air are to the jealous proofs 
as strong as holy writ. A handkerchief of his 
wife's seen in Cassio's hand was motive enough 
to the deluded Othello to pass sentence of 
death upon them both, without once inquiring 
how Cassio came by it. Desdemona had 
never given such a present to Cassio, nrn- 
vvould this constant lady have wronged her 



72 T/ILES FROM SH/IKSPEARE. 

lord with doing so naughty a thing as giviii»^ 
his presents to another man;Cassio and Des- 
demona were innocent of any offense against 
Othello; but wicked lago, whose spirit never 
slept in contrivance of villiany, had made his 
wife (a good, but a meek woman) steal this 
handkerchief from Desdemona, under pre- 
tence of getting the work copied, but in reali- 
ty to drop it in Cassio's way, where he might 
find it, and give a handle to lago's sugges- 
tion that it was Desdemona's present. 

Othello, after meeting his wife, pretended 
that he had a headache and desired her to 
lend him her handkerchief to hold his tem- 
ples. She did so. "Not this," said Othello, 
"but that handkerchief I gave you." Des- 
demona had it not (for indeed it was stolen. ) 
"How!" said Othello, this is a fault in- 
deed. That handkerchief an Egyption wo- 
man gave to my mother; the woman was a 
witch, and could read people's thoughts; 
she told my mother, while she kept it, it 
would make her amiable, and my father 
would love her; but if she lost it, or gave it 
away, my father's fancy and love would 
turn. She dying gave it to me, and bade 
me, if I ever married to give it to my wife. 
I did so; take heed of it. Make it a darl- 
ing as precious as your eye." "Is it 
possible? " said the frightened lady. 
" 'Tis true;" continued Othello; "it is a 
magical handkerchies; a sibyl that had lived 



OTHELLO. 73 

in the world two hundred years, m a fit of 
prophetic fury worked it; the silkworms that 
furnished the silk were hallowed, and it was 
dyed in mummy of maidens' hearts conserv- 
ed." Desdemona, hearing the wondrous vir- 
tues of the handkerchief, was ready to die 
with fear, she plainly perceived she had lost 
it, and with it, she feared, the affections of 
her husband. Othello started, looked as if 
he were going to do some rash thing, and 
still he demanded the handkerchief, which 
when she could not produce, tried to divert 
her husband from too serious thoughts, and 
cheerfully told him, she saw all his talkabout 
the handkerchief was only to put her off from 
her suit about Michael Cassio, whom she 
went on to praise, till Othello in perfect dis- 
traction burst from the room. Desdemona 
then suspected that her lord was jealous. 

What cause she could have ministered to 
ihim she knew not, then she accused herself 
for accusing nobel Othello, and thought to 
be sure that some untoward news from Ven- 
ice, or some state troubles, had puddled his 
spirits, and made his temper not so sweet as 
formerly. And she said, "Men are not gods, 
and we must not look for that observance 
from them when they are married which 
they show us on the bridal day." And she 
beshrewed herself for so unkindly judging 
of his unkindness. 

Again Othello and Desdemona met, and he 



74 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

accused her more plainly of being unfaithfnJ, 
and of loving another man, but he did not 
name whom : and Othello wept, and Des- 
demona said, " Alas ! the heavy day ! why do 
you weep ? " And Othello told her he could 
have borne all sorts of evils with fortitude- 
poverty, and disease, and disgrace ; but he) 
infidelity had broken his heart : and he callec 
her a weed, that looked so fair, and smelled 
so sweet, that the sense ached at it ; and 
wished she had never been born. And when 
he had left her, this innocent lady was sc 
stupefied with wonder at her lord's untrue 
suspicion of her, that a weight-like sleep came 
over her, and she only desired her attendani 
to make her bed, and to lay her wedding-sheets 
upon it, saying, that when people teach theii 
babes, they do it by ge tb means and easy 
tasks, and Othello might have chid her so ; foT 
in good faith she was but a child when she 
was chidden. And this was all the complaini 
which this gentle lady made. 

Desdemona being retired to bed, expecting 
her lord would follow he , soon fell into a 
slumber, the effect of her iroubled spirits, 
when Othello entered the chamber, full of the 
black purpose which he had meditated of put- 
ting his lady to death But wh n he saw hei 
asleep, he thought he would not shed hei 
blood, nor scar that white skin of hers, more 
white than alabaster. But he was resolved she 
should die, else (as he said) she would live to 
betray more men, as she had done him. Then 



OTHELLO. 



75 



he kissed her for the last time (as he said), and 
that kiss was so sweet, he must needs kiss hei 
again ; and he wept, but he said they were 
cruel tears. 

Desdemona was awakened with his kisses^ 
and she looked upon Othello, and she saw him 
gnaw his under lip, and roll his eyes, and she 
knew he was always fatal when he looked so ; 
and he bade her prepare for death, and to say 
her prayers, for he would not kill her soul 
And this innocent wife, as she lay at his 
mercy, begged for compassion, and to know 
her fault ; and then he named Cassio, and the 
handkerchief which (he said) she had given 
him ;' and as the guiltless lady was proceed- 
ing to clear herself, he suddenly would hear 
.no more, but covering her up in the bedclothes^ 
stifled her till she died. 

In this instant of time was brought in.o the 
house Cassio, wounded and bleeding, whom 
lago had set one of his creatures on to assas- 
sinate ; but the fellow not succeeding in hi» 
attempt to kill Cassio (whom he wounded, but 
not mortally), and being himself killed by 
lago to prevent discovery, in his pockets were 
found certain letters, which made the guilt o( 
lago, and the innocence of Cassio, clear beyond 
all doubt ; and Cassio now came to beg pardon 
of Othello, and to ask wherein he had offended 
him, that he had employed lago to murdei 
him. 

This discovery was as a thunderstroke to 
Othello, who now plainly saw that he was no 



j6 TALE:^ FROM SHAKSJ-RARR. 

better than a murderer, and that his wife poor 
innocent lady) had been ever faithful to him, 
the extreme anguish of which discovery mak- 
ing life insupportable, he fell upon his sword, 
and throwing himself upon the' body of his 
dear injured lady, expired. 

These rash acts raised much passion of 
horror and amazement in the bystanders, for 
Othello had borne a fair reputation, and till he 
was wrought upon by the arts of a villain, 
which his own noble nature never gave him 
leave to suspect, he was a loving and a doting 
husband. He had loved, not wisely, but too 
•well ; and his manly eyes (when he learned his 
mistake), though not used to weep on every 
small occasion, dropped tears as fast as the 
Arabian trees their gum. And when he was 
dead all his former merits and his valiant acts 
were remembered. Nothing now remained 
for his successor, but to put the utmost censure 
of the law in force against lago, who was exe- 
cuted with strict tortures ; and to send word 
to the state of Venice of the lamentable death 
of their renowned general 



TIMON OF ATHENS. 

TiMON, a lord of Athens, in the enjoyment 
of a princely fortune, affected a humor of lib- 
erality which knew no limits. His almost 
infinite wealth could not flow in so fast, but 
he poured it out faster upon all sorts and 
degrees of people. Not the poor only tasted 
of his bounty, but great lords did not disdain 
to rank themselves among his dependents and 
followers. His table was resorted to by all 
the luxurious feasters, and his house was open 
to all comers and goers, at Athens. His large 
wealth combined with his free and prodigal 
nature to subdue all hearts to his love ; men 
of all minds and dispositions tendered their 
services to lord Timon, from the glass-faced 
flatterer, whose face reflects as in a mirror the 
present humor of his patron, to the rough and 
unbending cynic, who, affecting a contempt of 
men's persons, and an indifference to worldly 
things, yet could not stand out against the 
gracious manners and munificent soul of lord 
Timon, but would come (against his nature) to 
partake of his royal entertainments, and return 
most rich in his own estimation if he had re- 
ceived a nod or a salutation from Timon. 

If a poet had composed a work which wanted 

77 



78 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

a recommendatory introduction to the world, 
he had no more to do but to dedicate it to 
lord Timon, and the poem was sure of a sale, 
besides a present purse from the patron, and 
daily access to his house and table. If a 
painter had a picture to dispose of, he only 
had to take it to lord Timon, and pretend to 
consult his taste as to the merits of it ; nothing 
more was wanting to persuade the liberal- 
hearted lord to buy it. If a jeweler had a 
stone of price, or a mercer rich costly stuffs, 
which for their costliness lay upon his hands, 
lord Timon's house was a ready mart always 
open, where they might get off their wares or 
their jewelry at any price, and the good- 
natured lord would thank them into the bar- 
gain, as if they had done him a piece of court- , 
esy in letting him have the refusal of such 
precious commodities. So that by this means 
his house was thronged with superfluous pur- 
chases, of no use but to swell uneasy and 
ostentatious pomp ; and his person was still 
more inconveniently beset with a crowd of 
these idle visitors, lying poets, painters, shark- 
ing tradesmen, lords, ladies, needy courtiers, 
and expectants, who continually filled his 
lobbies, raining their fulsome flatteries in 
whispers in his ears, sacrificing to him with 
adulation as to a god, making sacred the very 
stirrvip by which he mounted his horse, and 
seeming as though they drank the free air but 
through his permission and bounty. 

Some of these daily dependents were young 



TIMON OF A THENS. 79 

men of birth, who (their means not answering 
to their extravagance) had been put in prison 
by creditors, and redeemed thence by lord 
Timon ; these young prodigals thenceforward 
fastened upon his lordship, as if by common 
sympathy he were necsssarily endeared to all 
such spendthrifts and loose livers, who, not 
being able to follow him in his wealth, found 
it easier to copy him in prodigality and copious 
spending of what was not their own. One 
of these flesh-flies was Ventidius, for whose 
debts unjustly contracted Timon but lately 
had paid down the sum of five talents. 

But among this confluence, this great flood 
of visitors, none were more conspicuous than 
the makers of presents and givers of gifts. It 
was fortunate for these men, if Timon took a 
fancy to a dog or a horse, or any piece of 
cheap furniture which was theirs. The thing 
so praised, whatever it was, was sure to be 
sent the next morning with the compliments 
of the giver for lord Timon's acceptance, and 
apologies for the unworthiness of the gift ; and 
this dog or horse, or whatever it might be, did 
not fail to produce, from Timon's bounty, who 
would not be outdone in gifts, perhaps twenty 
dogs or horses, certainly presents of far richer 
worth, as these pretended donors knew well 
enough, and that their false presents were but 
the putting out of so much money at large and 
speedy interest. In this way lord Lucius had 
lately sent to Timon a present of four milk- 
white horses trapped in silver, which this 



8o TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

cunning lord had observed Timon upon some 
occasion to commend; and another lord, Lu- 
cuUus, had bestowed upon him in the same 
pretended way of free gift a brace of grey- 
hounds, whose make and flieetness Timon had 
been heard to admire: these presents the 
easy-hearted lord accepted without suspicion 
of the dishonest views of the presenters; and 
the givers of course were rewarded with rich 
return, a jewel of twenty times the value 
of their false and mercenary donation. 

Sometimes they would go to work in a 
more direct way, and with gross and palpable 
artifice, which yet the credulous Timon was 
too blind to see, would effect to admire and 
praise something Timon possessed, a bar- 
gain he had bought, or some late purchase 
which was sure to draw from this yielding 
and soft-hearted lord a gift of the thing com- 
mended, for no service in the world done 
for it but the easy expense of a little cheap 
and obvious flattery. In this way Timon 
had given to one of these mean lords the bay 
courser which he himself rode upon, because 
his lordship had been pleased to say that it 
was a handsome beast and went well; Timon 
knew that no man ever justly praised what 
he did not wish to possess. For lord Timon 
weighed his friends' affection with his own, 
and so fond was he of bestowing, that he 
could have dealt kingdoms to those sup- 
posed friends, and never have been weary. 



TIMON OF A THENS. Si 

Not that Timon's wealth all went to enrich 
these wicked flatterers ; he could do noble and 
praiseworthy actions ; and when a servant of 
his once loved the daughter of a rich Athenian, 
but could not hope to obtain her by reason 
that in wealth and rank the maid was so far 
above him, lord Timon freely bestowed upon 
his servant three Athenian talents, to make 
his fortune equal with the; dowry which the 
father of the young maid demanded of him 
who should be her husband. But for the most 
part, knaves and parasites had the command 
of his fortune, false friends whom he did not 
know to be such, but, because they flocked 
around his person, he thought they must needs 
love him ; and because they smiled and flat- 
tered him, he thought surely that his conduct 
was appr>.)ved by all the wise and good. And 
when he was feasting in the midst of all these 
flatterers and mock friends, when they were 
eating him up, and. draining his fortunes dry 
with large draughts of richest wines drunk to 
his health and prosperity, he could not perceive 
the difference of a friend from a flatterer, but 
to his deluded eyes (made proud with the 
sight), it seemed a precious comfort to have 
so many, like brothers commanding one 
another's fortunes (though it was his own fort- 
une which paid all the costs), and with joy 
they would run over at the spectacle of such, 
as it appeared to him, truly festive and frater- 
nal meeting. 

But while he thus outwent the very heart of 
2 



82 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

kindness, and poured out his bounty, as if 
Plutus, the god of gold, had been but his 
steward ; while thus he proceeded without care 
or stop, so senseless of expense that he would 
neither inquire how he could maintain it, nor 
cease his wild flow of riot ; his riches, whicli 
were not infinite, must needs melt away before 
a prodigality which knew no limits. But who 
should tell him so ? his flatterers ? they had an 
interest in shutting his eyes. In vain did his 
honest steward Flavius try to represent to him 
his condition, laying his accounts before him, 
begging of him, praying of him, with an impor- 
tunity that on any other occasion would have 
been unmannerly in a servant, beseeching him 
with tears to look into the state of his affairs. 
Timon would still put him off, and turn the 
discourse to something else ; for nothing is so 
deaf to remonstrance as riches turned to 
poverty, nothing so unwilling to believe itv. 
situation, nothing is so incredulous to its owin 
true state, and hard to give credit to a reverse. 
Often had this good steward, this honest creat- 
ure, v/hen all the rooms of Timon's great house 
have been choked up with riotous feeders at 
his j'iaster^s cost, when the floors have wept 
with drunken spilling of wine, and evei y 
apa'^tment has blazed with lights and resounded 
wit'i music and feasting, often had he retired 
by himself to some solitary spot, and wept 
fa" ^er than the wine ran from the wasteful 
c? «ks within, to see the mad bounty of his lord, 
a' i to think, when the means were gone which 



TIMON OF A THENS. 



83 



brought him praises from all sorts of people, 
how quickly the breath would be gone of which 
the praise was made ; praises won in feasting 
would be lost in fasting, and at one cloud of 
winter-showers these flies would disappear. 

But now the time was come that Timon 
could shut his ears no longer to the represen- 
tations of this faithful steward. Money must 
be had : and when he ordered Flavius to sell 
some of ills land for that purpose, Flavius 
informed him, what he had in vain endeavored 
at several times before to make him listen to, 
that most of his land was already sold or 
forfeited, and that all he possessed "at present 
was not enough to pay the one half of what 
he owed. Struck with wonder at this repre- 
sentation, Timon hastily replied, " My lands 
extended from Athens to Lacedemon." "O 
my good lord," said Flavius, " the world is but 
a world, and has bounds ; were it all yours to 
give it in a breath, how quickly were it gone ! " 

Timon consoled himself that no villainous 
bounty had yet come from him, that if he had 
given his wealth away unwisely, it had not 
been bestowed to feed his vices, but to cherish 
his friends ; and he bade the kind-hearted 
steward (who was weeping) to take comfort in 
the assurance that his master could never lack 
means while he had so many noble friends ; 
and this infatuated lord persuaded himself 
that he had nothing to do but to send and 
borrow, to use every man's fortune (that had 
ever tasted his bounty) in this extremity as 



H 



TALES FROM ^IIAKSPEARE. 



freely as his own. Then with a cheerful look, 
as if confident of the trial, he severally des- 
patched messengers to lord Lucius, to lords 
Lucullus and Sempronius, men upon whom he 
had lavished his gifts in past times without 
measure or moderation ; and to Ventidius, 
whom he had lately released out of prison by 
paying his debts, and who by the death of his 
father was now come into the possession of an 
ample fortune, and well enabled to requite 
Timon's courtesy ; to request of Ventidius the 
return of those five talents which he had paid 
for him, and of each of these noble lords the 
loan of fifty talents : nothing doubting that 
their gratitude would supply his wants (if he 
needed it) to the amount of five hundred times 
fifty talents. 

Lucullus was the first applied to. This 
mean lord had been dreaming overnight of a 
silver bason and cup, and when Timon's serv- 
ant was announced, his sordid mind suggested 
to him that this was surely a making out of 
his dream, and that Timon had sent him such 
a present : but when he understood the truth 
of the matter, and that Timon wanted money, 
the quality of his faint and watery friendship 
showed itself, for with many protestations he 
vowed to the servant that he had long foreseen 
the ruin of his master's affairs, and many a time 
had he come to dinner to tell him of it, and 
had come again to supper to try to persuade 
him to spend less, but he would take no coun- 
sel nor warning by his coming : and true it 



TIMOJV OF A THENS. 85 

was that he had been a constant attender (as 
he said) at Timon's feasts, as he had in greatef 
things tasted his bounty, but that he ever 
came with that intent, or gave good counsel or 
reproof to Timon, was a base unwortliy lie, 
which he suitably followed up with meanly 
offering the servant a bribe, to go home to his 
master and tell him that he had not found 
Lucullus at home. 

■ As little success had the messenger who was 
sent to lord Lucius. This lying lord, who was 
full of Timon's meat, and enriched almost to 
bursting with Timon's costly presents, when 
he found the wind changed, and the fountain 
of so much bounty suddenly stopped, at first 
could hardly believe it ; but on its being con- 
firmed, he affected great regret that he should 
not have it in his power to serve lord Timon, 
for unfortunately (which was a base falsehood) 
he had made a great purchase the day before, 
which had quite disfurnished him of the means 
at present, the more beast he, he called him- 
self, to put it out of his power to serve so good 
a friend ; and he counted it one of his greatest 
afiflictions that his ability should fail him to 
pleasure such an honorable gentleman. 

Who can cal' any man friend that dips in 
the same dish with him ? just of this metal is 
every flatterer. In the recollection of every- 
body Timon had been a father to this Lucius, 
had kept up his credit with his purse ; Timon s 
ffloney had gone to pay the wages of his 
servants, to pay the hir^ of the laborers who 



86 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

*iad sweat to build the fine houses which 
Lucius's pride had made necessary to him : yet 
— oh ! the monster whicli man makes himself 
■jvhen he proves ungrateful ! — this Lucius now 
denied to Timon a sum which, in respect of 
what Timon had bestowed on him, was less 
than charitable men afford to beggars. 

Sempronius and every one of those merce- 
nary lords to whom Timon applied in their turn, 
returned the same evasive answer or direct 
denial ; even Ventidius, the redeemed and now 
rich Ventidius, refused to assist him with the 
loan of those five talents which Timon had not 
lent, but generously given him in his distress. 

Now was Timon as much avoided in his 
Poverty as he had been courted and resorted 
10 in his riches. Now the same tongues which 
had been loudest in his praises, extolling him 
as bountiful, liberal, and openhanded, were 
not ashamed to censure that very bounty as 
folly, that liberality as profuseness, though it 
had shown itself folly in nothing so truly as 
in the selection of such unworthy creatures as 
themselves for its objects. Now was Timon's 
princely mansion forsaken, and become a 
shunned and hated place, a place for men to 
pass by, not a place as formerly where every 
passenger must stop and taste of hi- wine and 
good cheer; now, instead of being thronged 
with feasting and tumultuous guests, it was 
beset with impatient and clamorous creditors, 
usurers, extortioners, fierce and intolerable in 
their demands, pleading bonds, interest, mort- 



TIMON OF A THENS. . Sf 

gages, Iron-hearted men that would take no 
denialnor putting off, that Timon's house 
was now his jail, which he could not pass, 
nor go in nor out for them; one demanding 
his due of fifty talents, another bringing in 
a bill of five thousand crowns, which if he 
would tell out his blood by drops, and pay 
them so, he had not^enough in his body to 
discharge, drop by drop. 

In this desperate and irremediable state (as 
it seemed) of his affairs, the eyes of all men 
were suddenly surprised at a new and incredi- 
ble luster, which this setting sun put forth. 
Once more lord Timon proclaimed a feast, to 
which he invited his accustomed guests, lords, 
ladies, all that was great or fashionable in 
Athens. Lords Lucius and Lucullus came 
Ventidius, Sempronius, and the rest. Who 
more sorry now than these fawning wretches, 
when they found (as they thought) that lord 
Timon's poverty was all pretence, and had been 
only put on to make trial of their loves, to 
think that they should not have seen through 
the artifice at the time, and have had the cheap 
credit of obliging his lordship ? yet who more 
glad to find the fountain of that noble bounty, 
which they had thought dried up, still fresh and 
running ? They came dissembling, protesting, 
expressing deepest sorrow and shame, that 
when his lordship sent to them they should have 
been so unfortunate as to want the present 
means to oblige so honorable a friend. _ But 
Timon begged them not to give such trities a 



88 TALiiS FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

thought, for he had altogether forgotten it. 
And these base fawning lords, though they had 
denied him money in his adversity, yet could 
not refuse their presence at this new blaze of 
his returning prosperity. For the swallow 
follows not summer more willingly than men of 
these dispositions follow the good fortunes of 
the great, nor more willij^igly leaves winter than 
these shrink from the first appearance of a 
reverse : such summer birds are men. But 
now with music and state the banquet of 
smoking dishes were served up ; and when the 
guests had a little done admiring whence the 
bankrupt Timon could find means to furnish 
so costly a feast, some doubting whether the 
scene they saw was real, as scarce trusting 
their own eyes ; at a signal given, the dishes 
ivere uncovered, and Timon's drift appeared: 
instead of those varieties and far-fetched 
dainties which they expected, that Timon's 
epicurean table in past times had so liberally 
presented, now appeared under the covers of 
these dishes a preparation more suitable to 
Timon's poverty, nothing but a little smoke 
and lukewarm water, fit feast for this knot of 
mouth-friends, whose professions were indeed 
smoke, and their hearts lukewarm and slippery 
as the water with which Timon welcomed his 
astonished guests, bidding them, " Uncover 
dogs, and lap ; " and before they could recover 
their surprise, sprinkling it in their faces, that 
they might have enough, and throwing dishes 
and all after them, who now ran huddling out, 



TIMON OF A THENS. 89 

lords, ladies, with their caps snatched up in 
haste, a splendid confusion, Timon pursuing 
them, still calling them what they were. 
" Smooth, smiling parasites, destroyers under 
the mask of courtesy, affable wolves, meek 
bears, fools of fortune, feast-friends, time-flies." 
They, crowding out to avoid him, left the 
house more willingly than they had entered it : 
some losing their gowns and caps and some 
their jewels in the hurry, all glad to escape out 
of the presence of such a mad lord*, and the 
ridicule of his mock banquet. 

This was the last feast that ever Timon 
made, and in it he took farewell of Athens and 
the society of men, for after that he betook 
himself to the woods, turning his back upon 
the hated city and upon all mankind, wishing 
the walls of that detestable city might sink, 
and their houses fall upon their owners, wish- 
ing all plagues which infest humanity, war, 
outrage, poverty, and diseases, might fasten 
upon its inhabitants, praying the just gods to 
confound all Athenians, both voung and old, 
high and iow; so wisning, ne wevi. :: the 
woods, where he said he should find the un- 
kindest beast much kinder than mankind. He 
stripped himself naked, that he might retain 
no fashion of a man, and dug a cave to live in, 
and lived solitary in the manner of a beast, 
eating the wild roots, and drinking water, 
flying from the face of his kind, and choosing 
rather to herd with wild beasts, as more harm- 
less and friendly than man. 



go 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



What a change from lord Timon the rich, 
lord Timon the delight of mankind, to Timon 
the naked, Timon the man-hater ! Where 
were his flatterers how ? Where were his at- 
tendants and retinue ? Would the bleak air, 
that boisterous servitor, be his chamberlain, to 
put his shirt on warm ? Would those stiff 
trees, that had outlived the eagle, turn young 
and fairy pages to him, to skip on his errands 
when he bade them ? Would the cold brook, 
when it was iced with winter, administer to 
him his warm broth and caudles when sick of 
an overnight's surfeit ? Or would the creatures 
that lived in those wild woods come and lick 
his hand and flatter him ? 

Here on a day, when he was digging for 
roots, his poor sustenance, his spade struck 
against something heavy, which proved to be 
gold, a great heap which some miser had 
probably buried in a time of alarm, thinking to 
have come again and taken it from its prison, 
but died before the opportunity had arrived, 
without making any man privy to the conceal- 
ment : so it lay, doing neither good nor harm, 
in the bowels of the earth, its mother, as if it 
had never come from thence, till the accidental 
striking of Timon's spade against it once more 
brought it to light. 

Here was a mass of treasure which, if Timon 
had retained his old mind, was enough to have 
purchased him friends and flatterers again ; 
but Timon was sick of the false world, and the 
sight of gold was poisonous to his eyes ; and 



TIMON OF A THENS. 91 

he would have restored it to the earth, but that, 
thinkmg of the infinite calamities which by 
means of gold happen to mankind, how the 
lucre of it causes robberies, oppression, in- 
justice, briberies, violence, and murder among 
them, he had a pleasure in imagining (such a 
rooted hatred did he bear to his species) that 
out of this heap which in digging he had dis- 
covered, might arise some mischief to plague 
mankind. And some soldiers passing through 
the woods near to his cave at that instant, 
which proved to be a part of the troops of the 
Athenian captain Alcibiades, who upon some 
disgust taken against the senators at Athens 
(the Athenians were ever noted to be a thank- 
less and ungrateful people, giving disgust to 
their generals and best friends), was marching 
at the head of the same triumphant army 
which he had formerly headed in their defense, 
to war against them : Timon, who liked their 
business well, bestowed upon their captain the 
gold to pay his soldiers, requiring no other 
service from him than that he should with his 
conquering army lay Athens level with the 
ground, and burn, slay, kill all her inhabitants ; 
not sparing the old men for their white beards, 
for (he said) they were usurers, nor the young 
children for their seeming innocent smiles, for 
those (he said) would live, if they grew up, to 
be traitors ; but to steel his eyes and ears 
against any sights or sounds that might awaken 
compassion ; and not to let the cries of virgins, 
babes, or mothers, hinder him from making 



92 TALES FROM SHAKSFEARE. 

one universal massacre of the city, but to con- 
found them all in his conquest ; and when he 
had conquered, he prayed that the gods would 
confound him also, the conqueror, so thoroughly 
did Timon hate Athens, Athenians, and all 
mankind. 

While he lived in this forlorn state, leading 
a life more brutal than human, he was sud- 
denly surprised one day with the appearance 
of a man standing in an admiring posture at 
the door of his cave. It was Flavius, the 
honest steward, whom love and zealous affec- 
tion to his master had led to seek him out at 
his wretched dwelling, and to offer his serv- 
ices ; and the first sight of his master, the 
once noble Timon, in that abject condition, 
naked as he was born, living in the manner of 
a beast among beasts, looking like his own sad 
ruins and a monument of decay, so affected 
this good servant, that he stood speechless, 
wrapped up in horror and confounded. And 
when he found utterance at last to his words, 
they were so choked with tears, that Timon 
had much ado to know him again, or to make 
out who it was that had come (so contrary to 
the experience he had had of mankind) to 
offer him service in extremity. And being in 
the form and shape of a man, he suspected 
him for a traitor, and his tears for false ; but 
the good servant by so many tokens confirmed 
the truth of his fidelity, and made it clear that 
nothing but love and zealous duty to his once 
dear master had brought him there, that Timon 



timc:j of a thens. 



93 



was forced to confess that the world contained 
one honest man ; yet, being in the shape and 
form of a man, he could not look upon his 
man's face without abhorrence, or hear words 
uttered irom his man's lips without loathing ; 
and this singly honest man was forced to de- 
part, because he was a man, and because, with 
a heart more gentle and compassionate than 
is usual to man, he bore man's detested form 
and outward feature. 

But greater visitants than a poor steward 
were about to interrupt the savage quiet of 
Timon's solitude. For now the day was come 
when the ungrateful lords, of Athens sorely 
repented the injustice which they had done to 
the noble Timon. For Alcibiades, like an in- 
censed wild boar, was raging at the walls of 
their city, and with his hot siege threatened to 
lay fair Athens in the dust. And now the 
memory of lord Timon's former prowess and 
military conduct came fresh into their forgetful 
minds, for Timon had been their general in 
past times, and was a valiant and expert 
soldier, who alone of all the Athenians was 
deemed able to cope with a besieging army 
such as then threatened them, or to drive back 
the furious approaches of Alcibiades. 

A deputation of the senators was chosen in 
this emergency to wait upon Timon. To him 
they come in their extremity, to whom, when 
he was in extremity, they had shown but small 
regard ; as if they presumed upon his gratitude 
whom they had disobliged* and had derived ^ 



94 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



claim to his courtesy from their own mostdiS" 
courteous and unpiteous treatment. 

Now they earnestly beseech him, implore 
him with tears, to return and save that city, 
from which their ingratitude had so lately 
driven him ; now they offer him riches, power, 
dignities, satisfaction for past injuries, and 
public honors and the public love ; their per- 
sons, lives and fortunes, to be at his disposal, 
if he will but come back and save them. But 
Timon the naked, Timon the man-hater, was 
no longer lord Timon, the lord of bounty, 
the flower of valor, their defense in war, their 
ornament in peace. If Alcibiades killed his 
countrymen, Timon cared not. If he sacked 
fair Athens, and slew her old men and her 
infants, Timon would rejoice. So he told 
them ; and that there was not a knife in the " 
unruly camp which he did not prize above the 
reverendest throat in Athens. 

This was all the answer he vouchsafed t(f 
the weeping, disappointed senators ; only at 
parting, he bade them commend him to his 
countrymen, and tell them, that to ease them 
of their griefs and anxieties, and to prevent 
the consequences of fierce Alcibiades' wrath, 
diere was yet a way left, which he would teach 
them, for he had yet so much affection left for 
his dear countrymen as to be willing to do them 
a kindness before his death. These words a 
little revived the senators, who hoped that his 
kindness for their city was returning. Then 
Timon told them 'Lat he had a tree, which 



TIMON OF A THENS. 95 

grew near his cave, which he should shortly 
have occasion to cut down, and he invited all 
his friends in Athens, high or low, of what 
degree soever, who wished to shun affliction, 
to come and take a taste of his tree before he 
cut it down ; meaning that they might come 
and hang themselves on it, and escape afflic- 
tion that way. 

And this was the last courtesy, of all his 
noble bounties, which Timon showed to man- 
kind, and this the last sight of him which his 
countrymen had : for not many days after, a 
poor soldier, passing by the sea-beach, which 
was at a little distance from the woods which 
Timon frequented, found a tomb on the verge 
of the sea, with an inscription upon it, pur- 
porting that it was the grave of Timon the 
man-hater, who "while he lived, did hate all 
living men, and dying, wished a plague might 
consume all caitiffs left ! " 

Whether he finished his life by violence, 01 
■whether mere distaste of life and the loathing 
he had for mankind brought Timon to his con- 
clusion, was not clear, yet all men admired the 
fitness of his epitaph, and the consistency of 
his end : dying, as he had lived, a hater of 
mankind : and some there were who fancied a 
conceit in the very choice which he made of 
the sea-beach for his place of burial, where 
the vast sea might weep forever upon his 
grave, as in contempt for the transient and 
shallow tears of hypocritical and deceitful 
mankind. 



MACBETH. 

When Duncan the Meek reigned king of 
Scotland, there lived a great thane, or lord, 
sailed Macbeth. This Macbeth was a near 
kinsman to the king, and in great esteem at 
court for his valor and conduct in the wars ; 
an example of which he had lately given, in 
defeating a rebel army assisted by the troops 
of Norway in terrible numbers. 

The two Scottish generals, Macbeth and 
Banquo, returning victorious from this great 
battle, their way lay over a blasted heath, 
where they were stopped by the strange ap- 
pearance of three figures like women, except 
that they had beards, and their withered skins 
and wild attire made them look not like any 
earthly creatures. Macbeth first addressed 
them, when they, seemingly offended, laid 
each one her choppy finger upon her skinny 
lips, in token of silence : and the first of them 
saluted Macbeth with the title of thane of 
Glamis. The general was not a little startled 
to find himself known by such creatures ; but 
how much more, when the second of them 
followed up that salute by giving him the title 
of thane of Cawdor, to which honor he had no 
pretensions ; and again the third bid him, 
96 



MACBETH. 9) 

"All hail! king that shall be hereafter!*' 
Such a prophetic greeting might well amaze 
him, who knew that v/hile the king's son lived 
he could not hope to succeed to the throne. 
Then turning to Banquo, they pronounced 
him, in a sort of riddling terms, to be lesser 
than Macbeth and greater ! not so happy, yet much 
Jiappier ! and prophesied that though he should 
never reign, yet his sons after him should be 
kings in Scotland. They then turned into air 
and vanished: by which the generals knew 
them to be the weird sisters, or witches. 

While they stood pondering on the strange- 
ness of this adventure, there arrived certain 
messengers from the king, who were em- 
powered by him to confer upon Macbeth the 
dignity of thane of Cawdor. An event so 
miraculously corresponding with the prediction 
of the witches astonished Macbeth, and he 
stood wrapped in amazement, unable to make 
reply to the messengers ; and in that point of 
time swelling hopes arose in his mind, that the 
prediction of the third witch might in like 
manner have its accomplishment, and that he 
should one day reign king in Scotland. 

Turning to Banquo, he said, " Do you not 
hope that your children shall be kings, when 
what the witches promised to me has so won- 
derfully come to pass?" "That hope," an- 
swered the genera], " might enkindle you to aim 
at the throne ; but oftentimes these ministers 
of darkness tell us truths in little things to be- 
tray us into deeds of greatest consequence." 
7 



98 TALES FROM SHAKSPE/Fb. 

But the wicked suggestions of the witches 
had sunk too deep into tlie r.iind of Macbeth 
to allow him to attend to the warnings of the 
good Banquo, From that time he bent all his 
thoughts how to compass the throne of Scot- 
land. 

Macbeth had a wife, to whom he com muni- 
cated the strange prediction of the weird sisters 
and its partial accomplishment. She was jv 
bad ambitious woman, and so as her husband 
and herself could arrive at greatness, she cared 
not much by what means. She spurred on 
the reluctant purpose of Macbeth, who felt 
compunction at the thoughts of blood, and 
did not cease to represent the murder of the 
king as a step absolutely necessary to the 
fulfillment of the flattering prophecy. 

It happened at this time that the king, who 
out of his royal condescension would oftentimes 
visit his principal nobility upon gracious terms, 
came to Macbeth's house attended by his two 
sons, Malcolm and Donalbain, and a numerous 
train of thanes and attendants, the more to 
honor Macbeth for the triumphal success oi 
his wars. 

The castle of Macbeth was pleasantly situ- 
ated, and the air about it was sweet and whole 
some, which appeared by the nests v/hich the 
martlet, or swallow, had built under all the 
jutting friezes and buttresses of the building, 
wherever it found a place of advantage : , fot 
where those birds most breed and haunt the 
air is observed to be delicate. The king 



MACBETH <)g 

entered well pleased with the place, and not 
less so with the attentions and respect of his 
honored hostess, lady Macbeth, who had the 
art of covering treacherous purposes with 
smiles : and could look like the innocent flower, 
while she was indeed the serpent under it. 

The king, being tired with his journey, went 
early to bed, and in his state-room two grooms 
of his chamber (as was the custom) slept beside 
liim. He had been unusually pleased with his 
reception, and had made presents before he 
retired to his principal officers ; and among 
the rest, had sent a rich diamond to lady Mac- 
beth, greeting her by the name of his most 
kind hostess. 

Now was the middle of night, when over 
half the world nature seems dead, and wicked 
dreams abuse men's minds asleep, and none 
but the wolf and the murderer is abroad. This 
was the time when lady Macbeth waked to plot 
the murder of the king. She would not have 
undertaken a deed so abhorrent to her sex, 
but that she feared her husband's nature, that 
it was too full of the milk of human kindness 
to do a contrived murder. She knew him to 
be ambitious, but withal to be scrupulous, and 
not yet prepared for that height of crime which 
commonly in the end accompanies inordinate 
ambition. She had won him to consent to the 
murder, but she doubted his resolution : and she 
I'eared that the natural tenderness of his disr 
position (more humane than her own) would 
come between, and defeat the purpose. So 



too TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

With her own hands armed with a dagger, she 
approached the king's bed ; having taken care 
to ply the grooms of his chamber so with wine, 
that they slept intoxicated, and careless of 
their charge. There lay Duncan, in a sound 
sleep after the fatigues of his journey, and as 
she viewed him earnestly, there was something 
in his face, as he slept, which resembled her 
own father ; and she had not the courage to 
proceed. 

She returned to confer with her husband. 
His resolution had begun to stagger. He con- 
sidered that there were strong reasons against 
the deed. In the first place, he was not only 
a subject, but a near kinsman to the king ; and 
he had been his host and entertainer that day, 
whose duty, by the laws of hospitality, it was 
to shut the door against his murderer*^, not 
bear the knife himself. Then he considered 
how just and merciful a king thi> Duncan had 
been, how clear of offense to his subjects, how 
loving to his nobility, and in particular to him ; 
that such kings are the peculiar care of Heaven, 
and their subjects doubly bound to revenge 
their deaths. Besides, by .he favors of the 
king, Macbeth stood high in the opinion of all 
sorts of men, and how would those honors be 
stained by the reputation of so foul a murder ! 

In these conflicts of the mind lady Macbeth 
found her husband inclining to the better part, 
and resolving to proceed no further. But she 
being a woman not easily shaken from her evil 
purpose, began to pour in at his ears words 



\ 



MACBETH. loi 

which infused a portion of her own spirit 
into his mind, assigning reason upon reason 
why he should not shrink from what lie had 
undertaken ; how easy the deed was ; how soon 
it would be over ; and how the action of one 
short night would give to all their nights and 
days to come a sovereign away and royalty ! 
Then she threw contempt on his change of 
purpose, and accused him of fickleness and 
cowardice ; and declared that she had given 
suck, and knew how tender it was to love the 
babe that milked her, but she would, while it 
was smiling in her face, have plucked it from 
her breast, and dashed its brains out, if she 
had so sworn to do it, as he had sworn to per- 
form that murder. Then she added, how prac- 
ticable it was to lay the guilt of the deed upon 
the drunken, sleepy grooms. And with the 
valor of her tongue she so chastised his slug- 
gish resolutions, that he once more summoned 
up courage to the bloody business. 

So, taking the dagger in his hand, he softly 
stole in the dark, to the room where Duncan 
lay ; and as he went, he thought he saw an- 
other dagger in the air, with the handle to- 
wards him, and on the blade and at the point 
of it drops of blood : but when he tried to 
grasp at it, it was nothing but air, a mere phan- 
tasm proceeding from his own hot and op- 
pressed brain and the business he had in 
hand. 

Getting rid of this fear, he entered the king's 
room, whom he despatched with one stroke of 



!02 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARiL. 

nis dagger. Just as he had done the murder, 
one of the grooms, who slept in the chamber; 
laughed in his sleep, and the other cried, 
" Murder," which woke them both ; but they 
said a short prayer ; one of them said, " God 
bless us ! " and the other answered, " Amen ; " 
and addressed themselves to sleep again- 
Macbeth, who stood listening to them, tried to 
say, " Amen," when the fellow said "God bless 
us ! " but, though he had most need of a bless- 
ing, the word stuck in his throat, and he could 
not pronounce it. 

Again he thought he heard a voice which 
cried, " Sleep no more ; Macbeth doth murder 
sleep, the innocent sleep, that nourishes life." 
Still it cried, " Sleep no more," to all the house. 
" Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore 
Cawdor shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall 
sleep no more." 

With such horrible imaginations Macbeth 
returned to his listening wife, who began to 
think he had failed of his purpose, and that 
the deed was somehow frustrated. He came 
in so distracted a state, that she reproached 
him with his want of firmness, and sent him to 
wash his hands of the blood which stained 
them, while she took his dagger, with purpose 
to stain the cheeks of the grooms with blood, 
to make it seem their guilt. 

Morning came, and with it the discovery of 
the murder, which could not be concealed ; 
and though Macbeth and his lady made great 
show of grief, and the proofs against the 



MACBETH. 103 

grooms (the dagger being produced against 
them and their faces smeared with blood) were 
sufficiently strong, yet the entire suspicion fell 
upon Macbeth, whose inducements to such a 
deed were so much more forcible than such 
poor silly grooms could be supposed to have ; 
and Duncan's two sons fled. Malcolm, the 
eldest sought for refuge in the English court ; 
and the youngest, Donalbain, made his escape 
to Ireland. 

The king's sons, who should have succeeded 
him, having thus vacated the throne, Macbeth 
as next heir was crowned king, and thus the 
prediction of the weird sisters was literally 
accomplished. 

Though placed so high, Macbeth and his 
queen could not forget the prophecy of the 
weird sisters, that, though Macbeth should be 
king, yet not his children, but the children of 
Banquo, should be kings after him. The 
thought of this, and that they had defiled their 
hands with blood, and done so great crimes, 
only to place the posterity of Banquo upon the 
throne, so rankled within them, that they deter- 
mined to put to death both Banquo and his 
son, to make void the predictions of the weird 
sisters, which in their own case had been so 
remarkably brought to pass. 

For this purpose they made a great supper, 
to which they invited all the chief thanes ■, 
anA, among the rest, vv^ith marks of particular 
respect, Banquo and his son Fleance were 
invited. The way by which Banquo was to 



I04 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

pass to the palace at night was beset bji 
murderers appointed by Macbeth, who stabbed 
Banquo; but in the scuffle Fleance escaped. 
From that Fleance descended a race of mon- 
archs who afterwards filled the Scottish 
throne, ending with James the Sixth of Scot- 
land and the First of England, under whom 
the two crowns of England and Scotland were 
united. 

At supper the queen, whose manners were 
in the highest degree affable and royal, played 
the hostess with a gracefulness and attention 
which conciliated every one present, and Mac- 
beth discoursed freely with his thanes and 
nobles, saying, that all that was honorable in 
the country was under his roof, if he had but 
his good friend Banquo present, whom yet he 
hoped he should rather have to chide for 
neglect than to lament for any mischance. 
Just at these words the ghost of Banquo, whom 
he had caused to be murdered, entered the 
room, and placed himself on the chair which 
Macbeth was about to occupy. Though Mac- 
beth was a bold man, and one that could have 
faced the devil without trembling, at this hor- 
rible sight his cheeks turned white with fear, 
and he stood quite unmanned with his eyes 
fixed upon the ghost. His queen and all the 
nobles, who saw nothing, but perceived him gaz- 
ing (as they thought) upon an empty chair, took 
it for a fit of distraction ; and she reproached 
him, whispering that it was but the same 
fi\ncy which had made him see the dagger in 



MACBETH. 105 

the air when he was about to kill Duncan. 
But Macbeth continued to see the ghost, and 
gave no heed to all they could say, while he 
addressed it with distracted words, yet so 
significant, that his queen, fearing the dreadful 
secret woulS be disclosed, in great haste dis- 
missed the guests, excusing the infirmity of 
Macbeth as a disorder he was often troubled 
with. 

To such dreadful fancies Macbeth was 
subject. His queen and he had their sleeps 
afflicted with terrible dreams, and the blood of 
Banquo troubled them not more than the 
escape of Fleance, whom now they looked 
upon as father to a line of kings, who should 
keep their posterity out of the throne. With 
these miserable thoughts they found no peace, 
and Macbeth determined once more to seek 
out the weird sisters, and know from them the 
worst. 

He sought them in a cave upon the heath, 
where they, who knew by foresight of his 
coming, were engaged in preparing their 
dreadful charms, by which they conjured up 
infernal spirits to reveal to them futurity. 
Their horrid ingredients were toads, bats, and 
serpents, the eye of a newt and the tongue of 
a dog, the leg of a lizard and the wing of a 
night-owl, the scale of a dragon, the tooth of a 
wolf, the maw of the ravenous salt-sea shark. 
the mummy of a witch, the root of the poison- 
ous hemlock (this to have effect must 'rr 
digged in the dark), the gall of a goat and tne 



I Ob ALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

liver of a Jew, with slips of the yew-tree that 
roots itself in graves, and the finger of a dead 
child : all these were set on to boil in a great 
kettle, or caldron, which, as fast as it grew too 
hot, was cooled with a baboon's blood : to 
these they poured in the blood of a sow that 
had eaten her young, and they threw into the 
flame the grease that had sweaten from a 
murderer's gibbet. By these charms they 
bound the infernal spirits to answer their 
questions. 

It was demanded of Macbeth, whether he 
would have his doubts resolved by them, or by 
their masters the spirits. He, nothing daunted 
by the dreadful ceremonies which he saw, 
boldly answered, " Where are they ? let me 
see them." And they called the spirits, which 
were three. And the first arose in the like- 
ness of an armed head, and he called Macbeth 
by name, and bid him beware of the thane of 
Fife ; for which caution Macbeth thanked 
him : for Macbeth had entertained a jealousy 
of Macduff, the thane of Fife. 

And the second spirit arose in the likeness of 
a bloody child, and he called Macbeth by 
name, and bid him have no fear, but laugh to 
scorn the power of man, for none of woman 
born should have power to hurt him : and he 
advised him to be bloody, bold, and resolute, 
"Then live, Macduff ! " cried the king; " what 
need I fear of thee ? but yet I will make 
assurance doubly sure. Thou shalt not live ; 
that I may tell pale-hearted Fear it lies, and 
sleep in spite ofjhunder." _ 



MACBETH. 



lo;j 



That spirit being dismissed, a third arose in 
the form of a child crowned, with a tree in his 
hand. He called Macbeth by name, and 
comforted him against conspiracies, saying, 
that he should never be vanquished, until the 
wood of Birnam to Dunsinane Hill should 
come against him. " Sweet bodements ! 
good!" cried Macbeth; "who can unfix the 
forest, and move it from its earth-bound roots? 
I see I shall live the usual period of man's 
life, and not be cut off by a violent death. 
But my heart throbs to know one thing. ATell 
me, if your art can tell so much, if Banquo's' 
issue shall ever reign in this kingdom ? " 
Here the caldron sunk into the ground, and a 
noise of music was heard, and eight shadows, 
like kings, passed by Macbeth, and Banquo 
last, who bore a glass which showed the 
figures of many more, and Banquo all bloody 
smiled upon Macbeth, and pointed to them ; 
by which Macbeth knew that these were the 
posterity of Banquo, who should reign after 
him in Scotland ; and the witches, with a 
sound of soft music, and with dancing, making 
a show of duty and welcome to Macbeth, 
vanished. And from this time the thoughts 
of Macbeth were all bloody and dreadful. 

The first thing he heard when he got out of 
the witches' cave, was, that Macduff, thane of 
Fife, had fled to England, to join the army 
which was forming against him under Mal- 
colm, the eldest son of the late king, with 
intent to displace Macbeth, and set Malcolmj 



jgS tales from shakspeare. 

the right heii, upon the throne. Macbeth, 
stung with rage, set upon the castle of Mac- 
duff, and put his wife and children, whom the 
thane had left behind, to the sword, and ex- 
tended the slaughter to all who claimed the 
least relationship to Macduff. 

These and such-like deeds alienated the 
minds of all his chief nobility from him. 
Such as could, fled to join with Malcolm and 
Macduff, who were now approaching with a 
powerful army which they had raised in Eng- 
land ; and the rest secretly wished success to 
their arms, though for fear of Macbeth they 
could take no active part. His recruits went 
on slowly. Everybody hated the tyrant, 
nobody loved or honored him, but all sus- 
pected him, and he began to envy the condi- 
tion of Duncan, whom he had murdered, who 
slept soundly in his grave, against whom trea- 
son had done its worst : steel nor poison, 
domestic malice nor foreign levies, could hart 
him any longer. 

While these things were acting, the queen, 
who had been the sole partner in his wicked- 
ness, in whose bosom he could sometimes 
seek a momentary repose from those terrible 
dreams which afflicted them both nightly, 
died, it is supposed by her own hands, unable 
to bear the remorse of guilt and pubUc hate ; 
by which event he was left alone, without a 
soul to love or care for him, or a friend, to 
whom he could confide his wicked purposes. 

He grew careless of life, and wished tor 



MACBETB. 109 

death ; but the near approach of Malcolm's 
army roused in him what remained of his 
ancient courage, and he determined to die (as 
he expressed it) " with armor on his back." 
Besides tliis, the hollow promises of the witclies 
had filled him with false confidence, and h6 
remembered the sajangs of the spirits, that 
none of woman born was to hurt him, and that 
he was never to be vanquished till Birnam 
wood should come to Dunsinane, which he 
thought could never be. So he shut himself 
up in his castle, whose impregnable strength 
was such as defied a siege : here he sullenly 
awaited the approach of Malcolm. When, 
upon a day, there came a messenger to him, 
pale and shaking with fear, almost unable to 
report that which he had seen : for he averred 
that as he stood upon his watch on the hill, he 
looked towards Birnam, and to his thinking 
the wood began to move! " Liar and slave," 
cried Macbeth, " if thou speakest false thou 
shalt hang alive upon the next tree, till famine 
end thee. If thy tale be true, I care not \' 
thou dost as much by me : " for Macbeth no^v 
began to faint in resolution, and to doubt the 
equivocal speeches of the spirits.' He was not 
to fear till Birnam wood should come to 
Dunsinane : and now a wood did move ! 
" however," said he, " if this which he avouches 
be true, let us arm and out. There is no 
flying hence, nor staying here. I begin to be 
weary of the sun, and wish my life at an end." 
Witn these desperate speeches he salliedforth 



no T/4LES FROM Sl;iAKSPE/lRE. 

upon the besiegers, who had now come up to 

he castle. 

The strange appearance, which had given 
the messenger an idea of a wood moving, is 
easily solved. When the besieging army 
marched through the wood of Birnam, Mai 
colm, like a skillful general, instructed his sol- 
diers to hew down every one a bough and bear 
it before him, by way of concealing the true 
numbers of his host. This marching of the 
soldiers with boughs had at a distance the 
appearance which had frightened the messen- 
ger. Thus were the words of the spirit 
brought to pass, in a sense different from that 
in which Macbeth had understood them, and 
one great hold of his confidence was gone. 

And now a severe skirmishing took place, 
in which Macbeth, though feebly supported 
by those who called themselves his friends, 
but in reality hated the tyrant and inclined to 
the party of Malcolm and Macduff, yet fought 
with the extreme of rage and valor, cutting to 
pieces all who were opposed to him, till he 
cffene to where Macduff was fighting. Seeing 
Macduff, and remembering the caution of the 
spirit, who had counseled him to avoid Mac- 
duff above all men, he would have turned, but 
Macduff, who had been seeking him through 
the whole fight, opposed his turning, and a 
fierce contest ensued ; Macduff giving him 
many foul reproaches for the murder of his 
wife and children. Macbeth, whose sou! was 
charged enough with blood of that familj 



MACBETH. \\\ 

already, would still have declined the combat; 
but Macduff still urged him to it, calling him 
tyrant, murderer, hell-hound, and villain. 

Then Macbeth remembered >the words of 
the spirit, how none of woman born should 
hurt him ; and smiling confidently he said to 
Macduff, "Thou losest thy labor, _ Jlacduff. 
As easily thou mayest impress the air with thy 
sword, as make me vulnerable. I bear a 
charmed life, which must not yield to one of 
woman born." 

" Despair thy charm," said Macduff, " and 
let that lying spirit, whom thou hast served, 
tell thee, that Macduff was never born of 
woman, never as the ordinary manner of men 
is to be born, but was untimely taken from his 
mother." 

" Accursed be the tongue which tells me so,** 
said the trembling Macbeth, who felt his last 
hold of confidence give way ; " and let never 
man in future believe the lying equivocations 
of witches and juggling spirits, who deceive us 
in words which have doulDle senses, and while 
they keep th ir promise literally, disappoint 
our hopes with a different meaning. I will 
not fight with thee." 

" Then live ! " said the scornful Macduff ; 
" we will have a show of thee, as. men show 
monsters, and a painted board, on which shall 
be written, ' Here men may see the tyrant ! ' " 

" Never," said Macbeth, whose courage re- 
turned with despair ; " I will not live to kiss 
the ground before young Malcolm's feet, and 



112 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

to be baited with the curses of the rabble, 
Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane, 
and thou opposed to me wast never born of 
woman, yet will I try the last.". With these 
frantic words he threw himself upon Mac- 
duff, who after a severe struggle in the end 
overcame him, and cutting off his head, 
made a present of it to the young and law« 
ful king, Malcolm ; who took upon him the 
government which, by the machinations of the 
usurper, he had so long been deprived of, and 
ascended the throne of Duncan the Meek, 
amid the acclamations of the nobles and the 
people. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 

Shylock, the Jew, lived at Venice ; he was 
d usurer, who had amassed an immense for- 
tune by lending money at great interest to 
Christian merchants. Shylock, being a hard- 
hearted man, exacted the payment of the money 
he lent with such severity, that he was much 
disliked by all good men, and particularly by 
Anthonio, a young merchant of Venice ; and 
Shylock as much hated Anthonio, because he 
used to lend money to people in distress, and 
would never take any interest for the money 
he lent ; therefore there was great enmity be- 
tween this covetous Jew and the generous mer- 
chant Anthonio. Whenever Anthonio met 
Shylock on the Rialto (or Exchange), he used 
to reproach him with his usuries and hard 
dealings ; which the Jew would hear with 
seeming patience, while he secretly meditated 
revenge. 

Anthonio was the kindest man that lived, 
the best conditioned, and had the most un- 
wearied spirit in doing courtesies ; indeed he 
was one in whom the ancient Roman honor 
more appeared than in any that drew breath 
in Italy. He was greatly beloved by ^11 his 
fellow-citizens ; but the friend who was nearest 
and dearest to his heart was Bassanio, a nobI« 
8 113 



114 T4LES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Venetian, who, having but a small patrimony, 
had nearly exhausted his little fortune by liv 
ing in too expensive a manner for his slender 
means, as young men of high rank with smah, 
fortunes are too apt to do. Whenever Bas- 
sanio wanted money, Anthonio assisted him ; 
and it seemed as if they had but one heart 
and one purse between them. 

One day Bassanio came to Anthonio, and 
told him that he wished to repair his fortune 
by a wealthy marriage with a lady whom he 
dearly loved, whose father, that was lately 
dead, had^left her sole heiress to a large es- 
tate ; and that in her father's lifetime he used 
to visit at her house, when he thought he had 
observed this lady had sometimes from her 
eyes sent speechless messages, that seemed to 
say he would be no unwelcome suitor ; but 
not having money to furnish himself with an 
appearance befitting the lover of so rich an 
heiress, he besought Anthonio to add to the 
many favors he had shown him, by lending 
him three thousand ducats. 

Anthonio had no money by him at that tiiiie 
to lend his friend ; but expecting soon to have 
some ships come home laden with merchandise, 
he said he would go to Shylock, the rich money- 
lender, and borrow the money upon the credit 
of those ships. 

Anthonio and Bassanio went together to Shy- 
lock, and Anthonio asked the Jew to lend him 
three thousand ducats upon an interest he 
should require, to be paid out of the merchan 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 115 

dise contained in his ships at sea. On this, 
Shylock thought within himself, " If I can once 
catch him on the hip, I will feed fat the ancient 
grudge I bear him ; he hates our Jewish nation • 
he lends out money gratis ; and among the 
merchants he rails at me and my well-earned 
bargains, which he calls interest. Cursed be 
my tribe if I forgive him ! " Anthonio finding 
he was musing within himself and did not an- 
swer, and being impatient for money, said, 
" Shylock, do you hear ? will you lend the 
money ? " To this question the Jew replied, 
*' Signer Anthonio, on the Rialto many a time 
and often you have railed at me about my 
moneys and my usuries, and I have borne it 
with a patient shrug, for sufferance is the badge 
of all our tribe ; and then you have called me 
unbeliever, cut-throat dog, and spit upon my 
Jewish garments, and spurned at me with your 
foot, ay if I were a cur. Well then, it now 
appears you need my help ; and you come to 
me, and say, Shylock, lend me moneys. Has 
a dog money ? Is it possible a cur should 
lend three thousand ducats ? Shall I bend 
low and say. Fair sir, you spat upon me on 
Wednesday last, another time you called me 
dog, and for these courtesies I am to lend you 
moneys ? " Anthonio replied, " I am as like 
to call you so again, to spit on you again, and 
spurn you too. If you will lend me this money, 
lend it not to me as to a friend, but rather lend 
it to me as to an enemy, that, if I break, you 
may with better face exact the penalty." 



Il6 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

"Why. look you," said Shylock, "how you 
storm ! I would be friends with you, and have 
your love. I will forget the shames you have 
put upon me. I will supply your wants, and 
take no interest for my money." This seem- 
ingly kind offer greatly surprised Anthonio ; 
and then Shylock, still pretending kindness, 
and that all he did was to gain Anthonio's 
love, again said he would lend him the three 
thousand ducats, and take no interest for his 
money; only Anthonio should go with him to 
a lawyer, and there sign in merry sport a bond, 
that if he did not repay the money by a certain 
day, he would forfeit a pound of flesh, to be 
cut off from any part of his body that Shylock 
pleased. 

" Content," said Anthonio : " I will sign to 
this bond, and say there is much kindness in 
the Jew." 

Bassanio said Anthonio should not sign to 
such a bond for him ; and still Anthonio in- 
sisted that he would sign it, for that before the 
day of payment came his ships would return 
laden with many times the value of the money. 

Shylock, hearing this debate, exclaimed, 
"O father Abraham, what suspicious people 
these Christians are ! Their own hard dealings 
teach them to suspect the thoughts of others. 
I pray you tell me this, Bassanio : if he should 
break this day, what should I gain by the 
execution of the forfeiture ? A pound of man's 
flesh, taken from a man, is not so estimable, 
nor profitable neither, as the flesh of mutton 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. ii^ 

or of beef. I say, to buy his favor I offer this 
friendship • if he will take it, so ; if not, adieu." 

At last, against the advice of Bassanio, who, 
notwithstanding all the Jp'/ had said of his 
kind intentions, did not like his friend should 
run the hazard of this shocking penalty for his 
sake, Anthonio signed the bond, thinking it 
really was (as the Jew said) merely in sport. 

The rich heiress that Bassanio wished to 
marry lived near Venice, at a place called Bel- 
inont : her name was Portia, and in the graces 
of her person and her mind she was nothing 
inferior to that Portia, of whom we read, who 
was Cato's daughter, and the wife of Brutus. 

Bassanio being so kindly supplied with 
money by his friend Anthonio, at the hazard 
of his life, set out for Belmont with a splendid 
train, and attended by a gentleman of the name 
of Gratiano. 

Bassanio proving successful in his suit, 
Portia in a short time consented to accept of 
him for a husband. 

Bassanio confessed to Portia that he had no 
fortune, and that his high birth and noble an- 
cestry was all that he could boast of ; she, who 
loved him for his worthy qualities, and had 
riches enough not to regard wealth in a hus- 
band, answered with a graceful modesty, that 
she would wish herself a thousand times more 
fau', and ten thousand times more rich, to be 
more worthy of him ; and then the accomplished 
Portia prettily dispraised herself and said 
she was an unlessoned girl, unschooled un* 



Il8 TALES FROM SHAKSFEARE. 

practiced, yet not so old but that she could 
learn and that she would commit her gentle 
spirit to be directed and governed by him m 
all things ; and she said, " Myself and what is 
mine, to you and yours is now converted. 
But yesterday, Bassanio, I was the lady of 
this fair mansion, queen of myself, and mis- 
tress over these servants 5 and now this house, 
L'hese servants, and myself are yours, my lord ; 
I give them with this ring i " presenting a ring 
to Bassanio, 

Bassanio was so overpowered with gratitude 
and wonder at the gracious manner in which 
the rich and noble Portia accepted of a man 
of his humble fortunes, that he could not 
express his joy and reverence to the dear lady 
who so honored him, by anything but broken 
words of love and thankfulness ; and taking 
the ring, he vowed never to part with it. 

Gratiano, and Nerissa, Portia's waiting- 
maid, were in attendance upon their lord and 
lady when Portia so gracefully promised to 
become the obedient wife of Bassanio ; and 
wishing Bassanio and the generous lady joy, 
desired permission to be married at the same 
time. 

" With all my heart, Gratiano," said Bassanio, 
" if you can get a wife." 

Gratiano then said that he loved the lady 
Portia's fair waiting gentlewoman, Nerissa, 
and that she had promised to be his wife, if 
her lady married Bassanio. Portia asked 
Nerissa if this was true. Nerissa replied- 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE, 119 

^* Madam, it is so, if you approve of it" 
Portia willingly consenting, Bassanio pleas- 
antly said, " Then our wedding-feast shall be 
much honored by your marriage, Gratiano." 

The happiness of these lovers was sadly 
crossed at this moment by the entrance of a 
messenger, who brought a letter from Anthonio 
containing fearful tidings. When Bassanio 
read Anthonio's letter, Portia feared it was to 
tell him of the death of some dear friend, he 
looked so pale ; and inquiring what was the 
news which had so distressed him, he said, 
" O sweet Portia, here are a few of the un- 
pleasantest • words that ever blotted paper ; 
-gentle lady, when I first imparted my love to 
you, I freely told you all the wealth I had ran 
in my veins ; but I should have told 
you that I -had less than nothing, being 
in debt." Bassanio then told Portia what 
has been here related, of his borrowing the 
money of Anthonio, and of Anthonio's procur- 
ing it of Shylock the Jew, and of the bond by 
which Anthonio had engaged to forfeit a pound 
of flesh, if it was not repaid by a certain day ; 
and then Bassanio read Anthonio's letter ; the 
words of which were, " Sweet Bassanio, my 
ships are all lost, my bond to the Jew is for- 
feited, and since in paying it is impossible I 
should live, I could wish to see you at my 
death ; notwithstanding, use your pleasure ; if 
your love for me do not persuade you to come, 
let not my letter." '■' Oh my dear love," said 
Portia, " dispatch the business and be gone j 



I20 TALES FROM SHAKSFEARB. 

you shall have gold to pay the money twenty 
times over, before this kind friend shall lose a 
hair by my Bassanio's fault ; and as you are 
so dearly bought, I will dearly love you." 
Portia then said she would be married to 
Bassanio before he set out, to give him a legal 
right to her money ; and that same day they 
were married, and Gratiano was also married to 
Nerissa ; and Bassanio and Gratiano, the 
instant they were married, set out in great haste 
for Venice^ where Bassanio found Anthonio in 
prison. 

The day of payment being past, the cruel 
Jew would not accept of the money which 
Bassanio offered him, but insisted upon hav 
ing a pound of Anthonio's flesh. A day was 
appointed to try this shocking cause before the . 
duke of Venice, and Bassanio awaited in 
dreadful suspense the event of the trial. 

When Portia parted with her husband, she 
spoke cheeringly to him, and bade him bring 
his dear friend along with him when he re 
turned ; yet she feared it would go hard with 
Anthonio, and when she was left alone, she 
began to think and consider within herself, if . 
she could by any means be instrumental in 
saving the life of her dear Bassanio's friend ; 
and notwithstanding, when she wished to 
honor her Bassanio, she had said to him with 
such a meek and wife-like grace, that she 
would submit in all things to be governed by 
his superior wisdom, yet being now called 
forth into action by the peril of her honored 



THE MERCHANT Of VENICE. 121 

husband's friend, she did nothing doubt her 
©wn powers, and by the sole guidance of her 
own true and perfect judgment, at once re- 
solve.d to go herself to Venice, and speak in 
Anthonio's defense. 

Portia had a relation who was a counselor 
in the law ; to this gentleman, whose name 
was Bellario, she wrote, and stating the case to 
him, desired his opinion, and that with his 
advice he would also send her the dress worn 
by a counselor. When the messenger re- 
turned, he brought letters from Bellario of 
advice how to proceed, and also everything 
necessary for her equipment. 

Portia dressed herself and her maid Nerissa 
in men's apparel, and putting on the robes of 
a counselor, she took Nerissa along with her 
as her clerk ; and setting out immediately, 
they arrived at Venice on the very day of the 
trial. The cause was just going to be heard 
before the duke and senators of Venice in the 
senate-house, when Portia entered this high 
court of justice, and presented a letter from 
Bellario, in which that learned counselor 
wrote to the duke, saying he would have come 
himself to plead for Anthonio, but that he was 
prevented by sickness, and he requested that 
the learned young doctor Balthasar (so he 
called Portia) might be permitted to plead in 
his stead. This the duke granted, much 
wondering at the youthful appearance of the 
stranger, who was prettily disguised by her 
counselor's robes and her large wig. 



122 -TALES FROM SIJAKSPHARE. 

And now began this important trial. Portia 
looked around her, and she saw the merciless 
Jew, and she saw Bassanio, but he knew her 
not in her disguise. He was standing beside 
Anthoniojin an agony of distress and fear for 
his friend. 

The importance of the arduous task Portia 
had engaged in gave this tender lady courage, 
and she boldly proceeded in the duty she had 
undertaken to perform ; and first of all she 
addressed herself to Shylock ; and allowing 
that he had a right by the Venetian law to 
have the forfeit expresed in the bond, she 
spoke so sv/eetly of the noble quality of mercy 
-as would have softened any heart but the un- 
feeling Shylock's ; saying, that it dropped as 
the gentle rain from heaven upon the place 
beneath ; and how mercy was a double bless- 
ing, it blessed him that gave, and him that 
received it; and how it became monarchs 
better than their crowns, being an attribute of 
God himself; and that earthly pov/er came 
nearest to God's in proportion as mercy tem- 
pered justice : and she bid Shylock remember 
that as we all pray for mercy, thai same prayer 
should teach us to show mercy. Shylock only 
answered her by desiring to have the penalty 
forfeited in the bond. " Is he not able to pay the 
money ? " asked Portia. Bassanio then offered 
the Jew the payment of the three thousand 
ducats as many times over as he should desire \ 
which Shylock refusing, and still insisting upon 
having a pound of Anthonio's flesh. Bassania 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 123 

begged the learned young counselor would 
endeavor to wrest the law a little, to save 
Anthonio's life. But Portia gravely answered, 
that laws once established must never be 
altered, Shylock hearing Portia say that 
the law might not be altered, it seemed to him 
that she was pleading in his favor, and he 
said, " A Daniel is come to judgment ! O wise 
young judge, how I do honor you ! How 
much elder are you than your looks ! " 

Portia now desired Shylock to let her look 
at the bond ; and when she had read it, she 
said, " This bond is forfeited, and by this the 
Jew may lawfully claim a pound of flesh, to be 
by him cut off nearest Anthonio's heart." 
Then she said to Shylock, " Be merciful ; take 
the money, and bid me tear the bond." But 
no mercy would the cruel Shylock show : and 
he said, " By my soul I swear there is no power 
in the tongue of man to alter me." "Why, 
then, Anthonio," said Portia, " you must pre- 
pare your bosom for the knife ; " and while 
Shylock was sharpening a long knife with 
great eagerness to cut off the pound of flesh, 
Portia said to Anthonio, " Have you anything 
to say ? " Anthonio with a calm resignation 
replied, that he had but little to say, for that 
he had prepared his mind for death. Then he 
said to Bassanio, " Give me your hand, Bas- 
sanio ! Fare you well ! Grieve not that I am 
fallen into this misfortune for you ! " Com- 
mend me to your honorable wife, and tell 
her how I have loved you ! " Bassanio in the 



t24 " TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

deepest affliction replied, *' Anthonio, I am 
married to a wife who is as dear to me as life 
'tself ; but life itself, my wife, and all the 
world, are not esteemed with me above your 
life : I would lose all, I would sacrifice all to 
this devil here, to deliver you." 

Portia hearing this, though the kind-hearted 
lady was not at all offended with her husband 
for expressing the love he owed to so true a 
friend as Anthonio in these strong terms, yet 
could not help answering, " Your wife would 
give you little thanks if she were present to 
hear you make this offer." And then Gratiano, 
who loved to copy what his lord did, thought 
he must make a speech like Bassanio's, and he 
said, in Nerissa's hearing, who was writing in 
her clerk's dress by the side of Portia, " I have 
a wife, whom I protest I love ; I wish she were 
in heaven, if she could but entreat some power 
there to change the cruel temper of this currish 
Jew." " It is well you Vv^ish this behind her 
back, else you would have but an unquiet 
house," said Nerissa. 

Shylock now cried out impatiently, " We 
trifle time ; I pray pronounce the sentence." 
And now all was awful expectation in the 
court, and every heart was full of grief fot 
Anthonio. 

Portia asked if the scales were ready to 
weigh the flesh ; and she said to the Jew, 
" Shylock, you must have some surgeon by, 
iest he bleed to death." Shylock, whose whole 
Intent was that Anthonio should bleed to 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. j-5 

death, said, " It is not so named in the bond." 
Portia replied, " It is not so named in the 
bond, but what of that ? It were good )'OU 
did so much for ciiarity." To this all the 
answer Shylock would make was, "I cannot 
find it ; it is not in the bond." "Then," said 
Portia, " a pound of Anthonio's flesh is thine. 
The law allows it, and the court awards it. 
And you may cut this flesh from off his breast. 
The law allows it, and the court awards it." 
Again Shylock exclaimed, " O wise and upright 
judge ! A Daniel is come to judgment ! " 
And then he sharpened his long knife again, 
and looking eagerly on Anthonio, he said, 
" Come, prepare ! " 

" Tarry a little, Jew," said Portia ; " there 
is something else. This bond here gives you 
no drop of blood ; the words expressly are, ' a 
pound of flesh.' If in the cutting off the 
pound of flesh you shed one drop of Christian 
blood, your land and goods are by the law to 
be confiscated to the state of Venice," Now 
as it was utterly impossible for Shylock to 
cut off the pound of flesh without shedding 
some of Anthonio's blood, this wise discovery 
of Portia's, that it was flesh and not blood that 
was named in the bond, saved the live of 
Anthonio ; and all admiring the wonderful 
sagacit}' of the young counselor who had so 
happily thought of this expedient, plaudits 
resounding from every part of the senate- 
house ; and Gratiano exclaimed, in the words 
which Shylock had used, " O wise and upright 



t26 " TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

judge ! mark, Jew^ a Daniel is come to judg- 
ment ! " 

Shylock, finding himself defeated in his 
cruel intent, said with a disappointed look, 
that he would take the money ; and Bassanio, 
rejoiced beyond measure at Anthonio's unex- 
pected deliverance, cried out, " Here is the 
money ! " But Portia stopped him, sayings 
" Softly ; there is no haste ; the Jew shall have 
nothing but the penalty: therefore prepare, 
Shylock, to cut off the flesh ; but mind you 
shed no blood ; nor do not cut off more nor 
less than just a pound ; be it more or less by 
one poor scruple, nay, if the scale turn but by 
the weight of a single hair, you are condemned 
by the laws of Venice to die, and all your 
wealth is forfeited to the senate." " Give me 
my money, and "let me go," said Shylock." 
" I have it ready," said Bassanio : " here it is." 

Shvlock was going to take the money^ when 
Portia again stopped him, saying, " Tarry, Jew ; 
I have yet another hold upon you. By the 
laws of Venice, your wealth is forfeited to the 
state, for having conspired against the life of 
one of its citizens, and your life lies at the 
mercy of the duke ; therefore down on your 
knees, and ask him to pardon you." 

The duke then said to Shylock, "That you 
may see the difference o*^ our Christian spirit, 
I pardon you your life before you ask it : half 
your wealth belongs to Anthonio, the other 
half comes to the state." 

The generous Anthonio then said that he 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 127 

would give up his share of Shylock's wealth, 
if Shylock would sign a deed to make it over 
at his death to his daughter and her hus- 
band; for Anthonio knew that the Jew had 
an only daughter, who had lately married 
against his consent to a young Christian, 
named Lorenzo, a friend of Anthonio's, 
which had so ofiended Shylock that he had 
disinherited her. 

The Jew agreed to this and said: "I am 
ill. Let me go home: send the deed after me. 
and I will sign over half my riches to my 
daughter." "Get thee gone then," said the 
duke, "and sign it; and if you repent your 
cruelty and turn Christian, the state will 
forgive the fine of the other half your riches." 

The duke now released Anthonio and dis- 
missed the court. He then highly praised 
the wisdom and ingenuity of the young 
counselor, and invited him home to dinner. 
Portia, who meant to return to Belmont be- 
fore her husband, replied, "I humbly thank 
your grace, but I must away directly." The 
duke said he was sorry he had not leisure 
to stay and dine with him; and turning to 
Anthonio, he added, "Reward this gentle- 
man ; forin my mind you're indebted to him. " 

The duke and his senators left the court; 
then Bassanio said to Portia, "Most worthy 
gentleman,! and my friend Anthonio haveby 
your wisdom been now acquitted of grievous 
penalties, and I beg you will accept of three 



v,25 • TALES FROM SHAKSFEARE. 

thousand ducats due unto the Jew." " And 
we shall stand indebted to you over and above," 
said Anthonio, " in love and service evermore." 

Portia could not be prevailed upon to accept 
the money ; but upon Bassanio still pressing 
her to accept of some reward, she said, " Give 
me your gloves ; I will w^ar them for youi 
sake ; " and then Bassanio taking off his gloves 
she espied the ring which she had given him 
upon his finger ; now it was the ring the wily 
lady wanted to get from him, to make a merry 
jest when she saw Bassanio again, that made hei 
ask him for his gloves ; and she said, when she 
saw the ring, " And for your love I will take 
this ring from you." Bassanio was sadly dis- 
tressed that the counselor should ask him for 
the only thing he could not part with, and he re- 
plied in great confusion, that he could not give 
him that ring, because it was his wife's gift, 
and he had vowed never to part with it ; but 
that he would give him the most valuable 
ring in Venice, and find it out by proclamation. 
On this Portia affected to be affronted and left 
the court, saying, " You teach me, sir, how a 
beggar should be answered." 

" Dear Bassanio," said Anthonio, " let him 
have the ring ; let my love and the great service 
he has done for me be valued against your 
wife's displeasure." Bassanio, ashamed to 
appear so ungrateful, yielded, and sent Gra- 
tiano after Portia with the ring ; and then the 
clerk Nerissa, who had also given Gratiano 
a ring, she begged his ring, and Gratiano 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 129 

(notchoosing to be outdone in generosity by 
his lord) gave it to her. And there was laugh- 
ing among these ladies, to think, when they 
g,ot home, how they would tax their husbands 
Virith giving away their rings, and swear that 
Ihey had given them as a present to some 
woman. 

Portia, when she returned, was in that happy 
temper of mind which never fails to attend the 
consciousness of having performed a good 
action ; her cheerful spirit enjoyed every thing 
she saw \ the moon never seemed to shine 
so bright before ; and when that pleasant moon 
was hid behind a cloud, then a light which she 
saw from her house at Belmont aswell pleased 
her charmed fancy, and she said to Nerissa, 
*' That light we see is burning in my hall ; 
bow far that little candle throws its beams, so 
shines a good deed in a naughty world ; '' and 
hearing the sound of music from her house, 
" she said, Methinks that music sounds much 
sweeter than by day." 

And now Portia and Nerissa entered the 
house, and dressing themselves in their own ap- 
parel they awaited the arrival of their husbands 
who soon followed them with Anthonio ; and 
Bassanio presenting his dear friend to the lady 
Portia, the congratulations and welcomings of 
that lady were hardly over, when they perceived 
Nerissa and her husband quarreling in a cor- 
ner of the room. " A quarrel already ? " said 
Portia. " What is the matter ? " Gratiano 
replied, '' Lady, it is about a paltry gilt ring 
9 



X^O • TALES FROM S HA AS PEA RE. 

that Nerissa gave me, with words upon it like 
the poetry on a cutler's knife : Love me^ and 
leave me not" 

" What does the poetry or tlie value of the 
ring signify ? " said Nerissa. " You swore to 
me when I gave it to you, that you would 
keep it till the hour of death ; and now you say 
you gave it to the lawyer's clerk. I know you 
gaveit toa woman." " By this hand," replied 
Gratiano," I gave it to a youth, a kind of boy 
a little scrubbed boy no higher than yourself : 
he was clerk to the young counselor that by his 
wise pleading saved Anthonio's life : this prat- 
ing boy begged it for a fee, and I could not 
for my life deny him." Portia said, " You 
were to blame, Gratiano, to part with your wife's 
first gift, I gave my lord Bassanio a ring, and 
I am sure he would not part with it for all the 
world, Gratiano in excuse for his fault now 
said, " My lord Bassanio gave his ring away to 
the counselor, and then the boy, his clerk, that 
took some pains in writing, he begged my 
ring." 

Portia, hearing this, seemed very angry, and 
"reproached Bassanio for giving away her ring ; 
and she said Nerissa had taught her what to 
believe, and that she knew some woman had 
the ring, Bassanio was very unhappy to have 
so offended his dear lady, and he said with great 
earnestness, " No, by my honor, no woman 
had it, but a civil doctor, who refused three 
thousand ducats of me, and begged the ring, 
which when I denied him he went displeased 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. \y. 

away. What could I do, sweet Portia ? 1 was 
so beset with shame for my seeming ingratitude 
that I was forced to send the ring after him. 
Pardon me, good lady ; had you been there, 1 
think you would have begged the ring of me 
to give the worthy doctor." 

" Ah ! " said Anthonio, " I am the unhappy 
cause of these quarrels." 

Portia bid Anthonio not to grieve at that, for 
that he was welcome notwithstanding ; and then 
Aathonio said, " I once did lend my body for 
Eassanio's sake ; and but for him to whom 
your husband gave the ring, I should have now 
been dead. I dare be bound again, my soul 
upon the forfeit, your lord will never more 
break his faith with you," "Then you shall 
be his surety," said Portia ; " give him this 
ring, and bid him keep it better than the 
other." 

When Bassanio looked at this ring, he wa? 
strangely surprised to find it was the same he 
gave away ; and then Portia told him how she 
was the young counselor, and Nerissa was 
her clerk ; and Bassanio found, to his unspeak- 
able wonder and delight, that it was by the 
noble courage and wisdom of his wife that An- 
thonio's life was saved. 

And Portia again welcomed Anthonio, and 
gave him letters which by some chance had 
fallen into her hands, which contained an 
account of Anthonio's ships, that were supposed 
lost, being safely arrived in the harbor. So 
these tragical beginnings of this rich merchant's 



132 . TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Story were all forgotten in the unexpected 
good fortune which ensued ; and there was 
leisure to laugh at the comical adventure of 
the rings, and the husbands that did not know 
their own wives ; Gratiano merrily swearing in 
a sort of rhyming speech, that 

— ^while he lived, he'd fear no other thingt 

So sore, as keeping safe Nerissa's ring. 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 

The states of Syracuse and Ephesus being 
at variance, there was a cruel law made at 
Ephesus, ordaining that if any merchant ot 
Syracuse was seen in the city of Ephesus, he 
was to be put to death, unless he could pay a 
thousand marks for the ransom of his life. 

^geon, an old merchant of Syracuse, was 
discovered in the streets of Ephesus, and 
brought before the duke, either to pay this 
heavy fine, or to receive sentence of death. 

^geon had no money to pay the fine, and 
the duke, before he pronounced the sentence 
of death upon, him, desired him to relate the 
history of his life, and to tell for what cause 
he had ventured to come to the city of Ephe< 
sus, which it was death for any Syracusan 
merchant to enter. 

Jigeon said, that he did not fear to die, for 
sorrow had made him weary of his life, but 
that a heavier task could not have been im- 

Sosed upon him than to relate the events of 
is unfortunate life. He then began his own 
history in the following words : — 

" I was bom at Syracuse, and brought up 
to the profession of a merchant. I married a 
lady with whom I lived very happily, but being 

*33 



134 ' TALES FROM SHAK:SPEARE. 

obliged to go to Epidamnium, I was detained 
there by my business six months, and then, 
finding I sliould be obliged to stay some time 
longer, I sent for my wife, wlio, as soon as 
she arrived, was brouglit to bed of two sons, 
and, what was very strange, they were both so 
exactly alike, that it was impossible to distin- 
guish the one from the other. At the same 
time that my wife was brought to bed of these 
twin boys, a poor woman in the inn where ray 
wife lodged was brought to bed of two sons, 
and these twins were as much like each other 
as my two sons were. The parents of these 
children being exceeding poor, I bought the 
two boys, and brought them up to attend upon 
my sons. 

" My sons were very fine children, and my 
wife was not a little proud of two such boys : 
and she daily wishing to return home, I un- 
willingly agreed, and in an evil hour we got 
on shipboard; for we had not sailed above a 
league from Epidamnium before a dreadful 
storm arose, which continued with such vio- 
ience, that the sailors, seeing no chance of sav 
ing the ship, crowded into the boat to save 
their own lives, leaving us alone in the ship, 
which we every moment expected would be 
destroyed by the fury of the storm. 

" The incessant weeping of my wife, and the 
piteous complaints of the pretty babes, who 
not knowing what to fear, wept for fashion, be* 
cause they saw their mother weep, filled me 
with terror for them, though I did not for my- 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 1 35 

self fear death • and all my thoughts were bent 
to contrive means for their safety ; I tied my 
youngest son to the end of a small spare mast 
such as seafaring men provide against storms ; 
at the other end I bound the youngest of the 
twin slaves, and at the same time I directed my 
wife how to fasten the other children in like 
manner to another mast. She thus having the 
care of the two eldest children and I of the 
two younger, we bound ourselves separately to 
these masts with the children ; and but for 
this contrivance we had all been lost, for the 
ship split on a mighty rock and was dashed in 
pieces, and we clinging to these slender masts 
were supported above the water, where I, hav- 
mg the care of two children, was unable to 
assist my wife, who with the other children 
was soon separated from me ; but while they 
were yet in my sight, they were taken up by a 
boat of fishermen, from Corinth (as I supposed), 
and seeing them in safety, I had no care but 
to struggle with the wild sea- waves, to preserve 
my dear son and the youngest slave. At 
length we in our turn were taken up by a ship, 
and the sailors, knowing me, gave us kind wel- 
come and assistance, and landed us in safety 
at Syracuse ; but from that sad hour I have 
never known what became of my wife and 
eldest child. 

" My youngest son, and now my only care, 
when he was eighteen years of age, began to 
be inquisitive after his mother and his btother, 
and often importuned me that he might take 



136 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

his attendant, the young slave, who had also lost 
his brother, and go in search of them : at length 
I unwillingly gave consent, for though I anx- 
iously desired to hear tidings of my wife and 
eldest son, yet in sending my younger one to 
find them, I hazarded the loss of him also. 
It is now seven years since my son left me; 
five years have I passed in traveling through thf 
world in search of him : I have been in farthest 
Greece, and through the bounds of Asia, and 
coasting homewards, I landed here in Ephesus, 
being unwilling to leave any place unsought 
that harbors men ; but this day must end tho 
story of my life, and happy should I think 
myself in my death, if I were assured my wife 
and sons were living." 

Here the hapless yEgeon ended the account 
of his misfortunes ; and the duke, pitying this 
unfortunate father, who had brought upon 
himself this great peril by his love for his lost 
son, said, if it were not against the laws, which 
his oath and dignity did not permit him to 
alter, he would freely pardon him ; yet, instead 
of dooming him to instant death, as the strict 
letter of the law required, he would give him 
that day, to try if he could beg or borrow the 
money to pay the fine. 

This day of grace did seem no great favor 
to iEgeon, for not knowing any man in Ephe- 
sus, there seemed to him but little chance that 
any stranger would lend or give him a thou- 
sand marks to pay the fine : and helpless, and 
hopeless of any relief, he retired from the 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 137 

presence of the duke in the custody of a jailor. 

^geon supposed he knew no person in 
Ephesus ; but at the very time he was in danger 
of losing his life through the careful search he 
was making after his youngest son, that son 
and his eldest son also were both in the city 
of Ephesus. 

.^geon's sons, besides being exactly alike 
m face and person, were both named alike, 
being both called Antipholis, and the two twin 
slaves were also both named Dromio. -^geon's 
youngest son Antipholis of Syracuse, he whom 
the old man had come to Ephesus to seek, 
happened to arrive at Ephesus with his slavfc 
Dromio, that very same day that ^geon did ; 
and he being also a merchant of Syracuse, he 
would have been in the same danger that his 
father was, but by good fortune he met a 
friend who told him the peril an old merchant 
of Syracuse was in, and advised him to pass 
for a merchant of Epidamnium : this Antiph- 
olis agreed to do, and he was sorry to hear 
one of his own countrymen was in this danger, 
but he little thought this old merchant was his 
own father. 

The oldest son of ^geon (who must be 
called Antipholis of Ephesus, to distinguish 
him from his brother, Antipholis of Syracuse) 
had lived at Ephesus twenty years, and, being 
a rich man, was well able to have paid the 
money for the ransom of his father's life ; but 
Antipholis knew nothing of his father, being 
so young when he was taken out of the sea 



138 ■ TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

with his mother by the fishermen that he only 
remembered he had been so preserved, but he 
had no recollection of either his father or his 
mother ; the fishermen, who took up this 
Antipholis and his mother and the young slave 
Dromio, having carried the two children away 
from her (to the great grief of that unhappy 
lady), intending to sell them. 

Antipholis and Dromio were sold by them 
to duke Menaphon, a famous warrior, who was 
uncle to the duke of Ephesus, and he carried 
the boys to Ephesus when he went to visit the 
duke his nephew. 

The duke of Ephesus taking a fancy to 
young Antipholis, when he grew up, made him 
an officer in his army, in which he distinguished 
himself by his great bravery in the wars, where 
he saved the life of his patron the duke, who 
rewarded his merit by marrying him to Adriana, 
a rich lady of Ephesus ; with whom he was 
living (his slave Dromio still attending him) 
at the time his father came there, 

Antipholis of Syracuse, when he parted with 
his friend, who advised him to say he came 
from Epidamnium. gave his slave Dromio some 
money to carry to the inn where he intended 
to dine, and in the mean time he said he would 
walk about and view the city, and observe the 
manners of the people. 

Dromio was a pleasant fellow, and when 
Antipholis was dull and melancholy he used 
to divert himself with the odd humors and 
merry jests of his slave, so that the freedoms 



THE GOMEL I OF ERRORS- 139 

of Speech he allowed in Dromio were greatei 
than is usual between masters and theii 
servants 

When Antipholis of Syracuse had sent 
Dromio away, he stood av/hile thinking over 
his solitary wanderings in search of his mother 
and his brother, of whom in no place where he 
landed could he hear the least tidings ; and he 
said sorrowfully to himself, " I am like a drop 
of water in the ocean,, which seeking to find 
its fellow drop, loses itself in the wide sea. 
So I unhappily, to find a mother and a brother, 
do lose myself.' 

While he was thus meditating on his weary 
travels, which had hitherto been so useless, 
Dromio (as he thought) returned. Antipholis, 
wondering that he came back so soon, asked 
him where he had left the money. Now it 
was not his own Dromio, but the twin-hrother 
that lived with Antipholis of Ephesus, that he 
spoke to. The two Dromios and the two 
Antiphohses were still as much alike as ^geon 
had said they were in their infancy \ therefore 
no wonder Antipholis thought it was his own 
slave returned, and asked him why he came 
back so soon. Dromio replied, " My mistress 
sent me to bid you come to dinner. The 
capon burns, and the pig falls from the spit, 
and the meat will be all cold if you do not 
come home." " These jests are out of season," 
said Antipholis : " where did you leave the 
"money?" Dromio still answering that his 
mistress had sent him to fetch Antipholis ttf' 



;46 /ALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

dinnni ; "What mistress?" said Antipholis, 
" Why, your worship's wife, sir," replied 
Dromio. Antipholis having no wife, he was 
very angry with Dromio, and said, " Because 
I familiarly sometimes chat with you, you 
presume to jest with me in this free manner. 
I am not in a sportive humor now : where is 
the money ? we being strangers here, how dare 
you- trust so great a charge from your own 
custody ? " Dromio hearing his master, as he 
though*- him, talk of their being strangers, 
supposiiig Antipholis was jesting, replied 
merrily, " I pray you, sir, jest as you sit at 
dinner *. I had no charge but to fetch you 
home to dine with my mistress and her sister." 
Now Antipholis lost all patience, and beat 
Dromio, who ran home, and told his mistress 
that his master had refused to come to dinner, 
and said he had no wife. 

Adriana the wife of Antipholis of Ephesus 
was very angry when she heard that her hus- 
band said he had no wife : for she was of a 
jealous temper, and she said her husband 
meant that he loved another lady better than 
herself, and she began to fret, and say unkind 
words of jealousy and reproach of her husband ; 
and her sister Luciana, who lived with her, 
tried in vain to persuade her out of her ground- 
less suspicions. 

x\ntipholis of Syracuse went to the inn, and 
found Dromio with the money in safety there, 
and seeing his own Dromio, he was going 
again to chide him for his free jests, when 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 



141 



Adrianacame up to him, and not doubting 
that it was her husband she saw, she began to 
reproach him for looking strange upon her (as 
well he might, never having seen this angry 
lady before) ; and then she told him how well 
he loved her before they were married, and 
that now he loved some other lady instead of 
her. " How comes it now, my husband," saic^ 
she, "oh how comes it that I have lost your 
love ? " " Plead you to me, fair dame ? " said 
the astonished Antipholis. It was in vain he 
told her he was not her husband, and that he 
had been in Ephesus but two hou/s • "^^ht^ -n- 
sisted on his going home with her, <ind Anti- 
pholis at last, being unable co get away, went 
with her to his brother's house, and dined with 
Adriana and her sister, the one calling him 
husband, and the other, brother, he, all amazed, 
thinking he must have been married to her in 
his sleep, or that he was sleeping now. And 
Dromio, who followed them, was no less sur- 
prised, for the cook-maid, who was his brother's 
wife, also claimed him for her husband. 

While Antipholis of Syracuse was dining 
with his brother's wife, his brother, the real 
husband, returned home to dinner with his 
slave Dromio; but the servants would not 
open the door, because their mistress had 
ordered them not to admit any company ; and 
when they repeatedly knocked, and said they 
were Antipholis and Dromio, the maids laughed 
at them, and said that Antipholis was at dinner 
with their mistress, and Drc^mio was in the 



442 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARi^. 

kitchen; and though they almost knocked the 
door down, they could not gain admittance, 
and at last Antipholis went away very angry, 
and strangely surprised at hearing a gentleman 
was dining with his wife. 

When Antipholis of Syracuse had finished 
his dinner, he was so perplexed at the lady's 
still persisting in calling him husband, and a* 
hearing that Dromio had also been claimed by 
the cook-maid, that he left the house, as soon 
as he could find any pretense to get away ; for 
though he was very much pleased with Luciana 
the sister, yet the jealous-tempered Adriana 
he disliked very much, nor was Dromio at all 
better satisfied with his fair wife in the kitchen ; 
therefore both master and man were glad to 
get away from their new wives as fast as they 
could. 

The moment Antipholis of Syracuse had left 
the house, he was met by a goldsmith, who 
mistaking him, as Adriana had done, for Antiph- 
olis of Epheus, gave him a gold chain, call- 
ing him by his name ; and when Antipholis 
would have refused the chain, saying it did 
not belong to him, the goldsmith replied he 
made it by his own orders ; and went away, 
leaving the chain in the hand of Antipholis, 
who ordered his man Dromio to get his things 
on board a ship, not choosing to stay in a place 
any longer where he met with such strange 
adventures that he surely thought himself be 
witched. 

The goldsmith who had given the chain tc 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 143 

the wrong Antipholis was arrested for 
a sum of money he owed; and Antiphoiis the 
married brother, to whom the goldsmith 
thought he had given the chain, came to the 
place where the officer was arresting the gold- 
smith, who, when he saw Antipholis, asked 
him to pay for the gold chain he delivered 
:o him. Antipholis denying having re- 
ceived the chain, and the goldsmith per- 
sisting to declare -that he had but a few 
minutes before given it to him, both think- 
ing they were right, for Antipholis knew the 
goldsmith never gave hirh the chain, and, 
so like were the two brothers, the goldsmith 
was as certain he had delivered the chain 
into his hands, till at last the officer took the 
goldsmith to prison for the debt he owed, at 
the same time the goldsmith made the 
officer arrest Antipholis for the price of the 
chain; so that, at the conclusion of the dis- 
pute, Antipholis and the merchant were 
both taken to prison together. 

As Antipholis was going to prison, he met 
Dromio of Syracuse, his brother's slave, and 
mistaking him for his own, he ordered him to 
go to Adriana, his wife, and tell her to send 
the money for which he was arrested. Dromio 
wondering that his master should send him. 
back to the strange house where he dined, and 
from which he had just before been in such 
haste to depart, did not dare to reply, though 



144 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

tie came to tell his master the ship was ready 
to sail ; for he saw Antipholis was in no humor 
to be jested with. Therefore he went away, 
grumbling within himself that he must return 
to Adriana's house, " Where," said he, " Dow- 
sabel claims me for a husband ; but I must go, 
for servants must obey their masters' com- 
mands." 

Adriana gave him the money, and as Dromio 
was returning, he met Antipholis of Syracuse, 
who was still in amaze at the surprising adven 
tures he met with ; for his brother being -v^ll 
known in Ephesus, there was hardly a man he 
met in the streets but saluted him as an old 
acquaintance : some offered him money which 
they said was owing to him, some invited him 
to come and see them, and some gave him 
thanks for kindnesses they said he had done 
them, all mistaking him for his brother. A 
tailor showed him some silks he had bought 
for him, and insisted upon taking measure of 
him for some clothes. 

Antipholis began to think he was among a 
nation of sorcerers and witches, and Dromio 
did not at all relieve his master from his be- 
wildered thoughts, by asking him how he got 
free from the officer who was carrying him to 
prison, and giving him the purse of gold which 
Adriana had sent to pay the debt with. This 
talk of Dromio's of the arrest, and of a prison, 
and of the money he had brought from Adriana, 
perfectly confounded Antipholis. and he said, 
''This fellow Dromio is certainly distracted, 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 145 

and we wander here in illusions ; " and quite 
terrified at his own confused thoughts, he cried 
out, " Some blessed power deliver us from this 
strange place ! " 

And now another stranger came up to him, 
and she was a lady, and she too called him 
Antipholis, and told him he had dined v/ith her 
that day, and asked him for a gold chain which 
she said he had promised to give her. Antiph- 
olis now lost all patience, and calling her a 
sorceress, he denied that he had ever promised 
her a chain, or dined with her, or had ever seen 
her face before that moment. The lady per- 
sisted in affirming he had dined with her, and 
had promised her a chain, which Antipholis 
still denying, slie farther said, that she had given 
him a valuable ring, and if he would not give 
her the gold chain, she insisted upon having 
her own- ring again. On this Antipholis 
became quite frantic, and again calling her 
sorceress and witch, and denying all knowl- 
edge of her and her ring, ran away from her, 
leaving her astonished at his words and his 
wild looks, tor nothmg to her appeared more 
certain than that he had dined with her, and 
that she had given him a ring, in consequence 
of his promising to make her a present of a 
gold chain. But this lady had fallen into the 
same mistake the others had done, for she 
had taken him for his brother : the married 
Antipholis had done all the things she taxed 
this Antipholis with. 

When the married Antipholis was denied 
10 



V46 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE, 

entrance into his own house (those within 
supposing him to be already there), he had gone 
away very angry, believing it to be one of his 
wife's jealous freaks, to which he was very 
subject, and remembering that she had often 
falsely accused him of visiting other ladies, he 
to be revenged on her for shutting him out of 
his own house, determined to go and dine with 
this lady, and she receiving him with great 
civility, and his wife having so highly offended 
him, Antipholis promised to give her a gold 
chain, which he had intended as a present for 
his wife ; it was the same chain which the 
goldsmith by mistake had given to his brother. 
The lady liked so well the thoughts of having 
a' fine gold chain, that she gave the married 
Antipholis a ring ; which when, as she sup- 
posed (taking his brother for him), he denied, 
and said he did not know her, and left her in 
such a wild passion, she began to think he was 
certainly out of his senses ; and presently she 
resolved to go and tell Adriana that her 
husband was mad. And while she was telling 
it to Adriana, he came attended by the jailor 
(who allowed him to come home to get the 
money to pay the debt), for the purse of 
money which Adriana had sent by Dromio, 
and he had delivered to the other Antipholis. 
Adriana believed the story the lady told her 
of her husband's madness must be true when 
he reproached her for shutting him out of his 
own house ; and remembering how he had 
protested all dinner-time that he was not het 



7HE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 147 

husband, and had never been in Ephesus till 
that day, she had no doubt that he was mad ; 
she therefore paid the jailor the money, and 
having discharged him, she ordered her 
servants to bind her husband witli ropes, and 
had him conveyed into a dark room, and sent 
for a doctor to come and cure him of his mad- 
ness • Antipholis all the while hotly exclaiming 
against this false accusation, v/hich the exact 
likeness he bore to his brother had brought 
upon him. But his rage only the more con- 
firmed them in the belief that he was mad ; and 
Dromio persisting in the same story, they bound 
him also, and took him away along with his 
master. 

Soon after Adriana had put her husband 
into confinement, a servant came to tell her 
that Antipholis and Dromio must have broken 
loose from their keepers, for that they were 
both walking at liberty in the next street. On 
hearing this, Adriana ran out to fetch him 
home, taking some people with her to secure 
her husband again ; and her sister went along 
with her. When they came to the gates of a 
convent m their neighborhood, there they 
saw Antipholis and Dromio, as they thought, 
being again deceived by the likeness of the 
twin-brothers. 

Antipholis of Syracuse was still beset with 
the perplexities this likeness had brought 
upon him. The chain which the goldsmith 
had given him was about his neck, and the 
S^oldsmith was reproaching him for denying 



148 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

that he had it, and refusing to pay for it, and 
Antipholis was protesting that the goldsmith 
freely gave him the chain in the morning, and 
he had never seen the goldsmith again. 

And now Adriana came up to him, and 
claimed him as her lunatic husband, who had 
escaped from his keepers; and the men she 
brought with her were going to lay violent 
hands on Antipholis and Dromio; but they 
ran into the convent, and Antipholis begged 
the abbess to give him shelter in her house. 

And now came out the lady abbess herself 
to inquire into the cause of this disturbance. 
She was a grave and venerable lady, and wise 
to judge of what she saw, and she would not 
too hastily give up the men who had sought 
protection in her house; so she strictly ques- 
tioned the wife about the story she told of her 
husband's madness, and she said, "What is 
the cause of this sudden distemper of your 
husband's? Has he lost his wealth at sea? 
Or is it the death of some dear friend that 
has disturbed his mind?" Adriana replied 
that no such things as these had been the 
cause. "Perhaps," said the abbess, "he has 
fixed his affections on some other lady than 
you his wife; and that has driven him into 
this state." Adriana said she had long 
thought the love of some other lady v/as the 
cause of his frequent absences from home. 
Now it was not his love for another, but the 
teasing jealousy of his wife's temper, that 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 145 

often obliged Antipholis to leave his home, 
and (the abbess suspecting this from the 
vehemence of Adriana's manner) to learn 
the truth, she said, " You should have repre- 
hended him for this." "Why, so I did," 
replied Adriana. " Ay," said the abbess, 
*' but perhaps not enough." Adriana, willing 
to convince the abbess that she had said 
enough to Antipholis on this subject replied, 
" It was the constant subject of our conversa- 
tion : in bed I would not let him sleep for 
speaking of it. At table I would not let him 
eat for speaking of it. When I was alone 
with him, I talked of nothing else ; and in 
company I gave Iiim frequent hints of it. 
Still all my talk \/as how vile and bad it was 
in him to love any lady better than me." 

The lady abbess having drawn this full con- 
fession from the jealous Adriana, now said, 
"And therefore comes it that your husband is 
mad. The venomous clamor of a jealous woman 
is a more deadly poison than a mad dog's tooth. 
It seems his sleep was hindered by your rail- 
ing ; no wonder that his head is light : and his 
meat was sauced with your upbraidings ; 
unquiet meals make ill digestions, xnd that has 
thrown him into this fever. You say his, 
sports were disturbed by your brawls being 
debarred from the enjoyment of society and 
recreation, what could ensue but dull melau' 
choly and comfortless despair ? The con 
sequence is, then, that your jealous fits have 
made your husband mad-" 



150 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Luciana would have excused her sister, 
saying, she always reprehended her husband 
mildly ; and she said to her sist°Y, " Why do 
you hear these rebukes without answering 
them ? •' Sut the abbess had made her so 
plainly perceive her fault, that she could only 
answer, " She has betrayed me to my own 
reproof." 

Adriana, though ashamed of her own con^ 
duct, still insisted on having her husband 
delivered up to her ; but the abbess would 
suffer nr person to enter her house, nor would 
she deliver up this unhappy man to the care of 
the jealous wife, determining herself to use 
gentle means tor his recovery, and she retired 
into her house again, and ordered her gates to 
be shut against them. 

During the course of this eventful day, in 
which so many errors had happened from the 
likeness the twin-brothers bore to each other, 
old ^geon's day of grace was passing away, 
it being now. near sunset; and at sunset he 
was doomed to die if he could not pay the 
money. 

The place of his execution was near this 
convent, and here he arrived just as the abbess 
retired into tiie convent ; the duke attending 
in person, that if any offered to pay the money 
he might be present to pardon him. 

Adriana stopped this melancholy procession, 
and cried out to the duke for justice, telling 
him that the abbess had refused to deliver up 
her lunatic husband to her care. While she 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 15 j 

was speaking her real husband and his servant 
Dromio, who had got loose, came before 
the duke to demand justice, complaining that 
his wife had confined him on a false charge of 
lunacy; and telling in what manner he had 
broken his bands, and eluded the vigilance of 
his keepers. Adriana was strangely surprised 
to see her husband, when she thought he had 
been within the convent. 

^geon, seeing his son, concluded this was 
the son who had left him to go in search of 
his mother and his brother ; and he felt secure 
that this dear son would readily pay the money 
demanded for his ransom. He therefore spoke 
to Antipholis in words of fatherly affection, 
with joyful hope that he should now be released. 
But to the utter astonishment of ^geon his 
son denied all knowledge of him, as well he 
might, for this Antipholis had never seen his 
father since they were separated in the storm 
in his infancy ; but while the poor old ^geon 
was in vain endeavoring to make his son 
acknowledge him, thinking surely that either 
his griefs and the anxieties he had suffered 
had so strangely altered him that his son did 
not know him, or else that he was ashamed to 
acknowledge his father in hi;: misery in the 
midst of this perplexity the lady abbess and 
the other Antipholis and Dromio came out, 
and the wondering Adriana saw two husbands 
and two Dromios standing before'her. 

And now these riddling errors, which had 
so perplexed them all, were clearly made out. 



t52 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

When the duke saw the two Antipholises and 
the two Dromios both so exactly alike, he at 
once conjectured aright of these seeming mys- 
teries, for he remembered the story yEgeon 
had told him in the morning ; and he said, 
these men must be the two sons of ^Egeon and 
their twin slaves. 

But now an unlooked-for joy indeed com 
plated the history of ^geon ; and the tale he 
had in the morning told in sorrow, and under 
sentence of death, before the setting sun went 
down was brought to a happy conclusion, for 
the venerable lady abbess made herself known 
to be the long-lost wife of .-Egeon, and the fond 
mother of the two Antipholises. 

When the fishermen took the eldest 
Antipholis and Dromio away from her, she 
entered a nunnery, and by her wise and 
virtuous conduct she was at length made lady 
abbess of this convent, and in discharging the 
rights of hospitality to an unhappy stranger 
she had unknowingly protected her own son. 

Joyful congratulations and affectionate 
greetings between these long-separated parents 
and their children made them for a while forget 
that ^geon was yet under sentence of death ; 
but when they were become a little calm, 
Antipholis of Ephesus offered the duke the 
ransom money for his father's life ; but the 
duke freely pardoned y^geon, and would not 
take the mo'ney. And the duke went with the 
abbess and her newly-found husband and 
children into the convent, to hear this ha])py 



THE COMEDO OF ERRORS. 153 

family discourse at leisure of the blessed end- 
ing of their adverse fortunes. And the two 
Dromios' humble joy must not be forgotten ; 
they had their congratulations and greetings 
too, and each Dromio pleasantly complimented 
his brother on his good looks, being well 
pleased to see his own person (as in a glass) 
show so handsome in his brother. 

Adriana had so well profited by the good 
counsel of her mother-in-law, that she never 
after cherished unjust suspicions, or was 
jealous ' f her husband. 

Antipholis of Syracuse married the fair 
Luciana, the sister of his brother's wife ; and 
the good old ^geon, with his wife and sons, 
lived at Ephesus many years. Nor did the 
unraveling of these perplexities so entirely 
remove every ground of mistake for the future, 
but that sometimes, to remind them of advent- 
ures past, comical blunders w^ould happen, 
and the one Antipholis, and the one Dromio, 
be mistaken for the other, making altogether a 
pleasant and diverting Comedy of Errors, 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 

Gertrude, queen of Denmark, becoming a 
widow by the sudden death of king Hamlet, 
in less than two months after his death married 
his brother Claudius, which was noted by all 
people at the time for a strange act of in- 
discretion, or unfeelingness, orwoise: tor this 
Claudius did noways resemble her late husband 
in ih equalities of his person or his mind, but was 
as contemptible in outward appearance as he 
was base and unworthy in disposition ; and sus- 
picions did not fail to arise in the minds of some 
that he had privately made, away with his 
brother, the late king, with the view of marrying 
hib widow, and ascending the throne of Den- 
mark, to the exclusion of young Hamiet, the son 
of the buried king, and lawful successor to the 
.throne. 

But upon no one did this unadvised action of 
the queen make such impression as upon this 
young prince, who loved and venerated the 
memory of his dead father almost to idolatry ; 
and being of a nice sense of honor, and a 
most exquisite practicer of propriety himself, 
did sorely take to heart this unworthy conduct 
of his mother Gertrude : insomuch that be- 
tween grief for his father's death and shame for 
his mother's marriage, this young prince w^as 
154 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 15- 

overclouded with a deep melancholy, and lost 
all his mirth and all his good looks ; all his 
customary pleasure in books forsook him, his 
princely exercises and sports, proper to his 
youth, were no longer acceptable ; he grew 
weary of the world, which seemed to him an 
unweeded garden, where all the wholesome 
flowers were choked up, and nothing but weeds 
could thrive. Not that the prospect of ex- 
clusion from the throne, his, lawful inheritance, 
weighed so much upon his spirits, though that 
to a young and high-minded prince was a bit- 
ter wound and a sore indignity; but what so 
galled him, and took away all his cheerful 
spirits, was, that his mother had shown herself 
so forgetful to his father's memory : and such a 
father ! who had been to her soloving and gentle 
a husband ! and then she always appeared as 
loving and obedient a wife to him, and would 
hang upon him as if her affection grew to 
him : and now within two months, or, as it 
seemed to young Hamlet, less than two 
months, she had married again, married his 
uncle, her dead husband's brother, in itself a 
highly improper and unlawful marriage, from 
the nearness of relationship', but made much 
more so by the indecent haste with which it was 
concluded, and the unkingly character of the 
man whom she had chosen to be the partner 
of her throne and bed. This it was, which 
more than the loss of ten kingdoms, dashed 
the spirits, and brought a cloud over the mind 
of this honorable young prince. 



155 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

In vain was all that his mother Gertrude 01 
the king could do or contrive to divert him ; 
he still appeared in court in a suit of deep 
black, as mourning for the king his father's 
death, which mode of dress he had never laid 
aside, not even in compliment to his mother 
on the day she was married, nor could he be 
brought to join in any of the festivities or re- 
joicings of that (as appeared to him) disgrace-' 
ful day. 

What mostly troubled him was an uncer- 
tainty about the manner of his father's death. 
It was given out by Claudius, that a serpent 
had stung him : but young Hamlet had shrewd 
suspicions that Claudius himself was the ser- 
pent ; in plain English, that he had murdered 
him for his crown, and that the serpent who 
stung his father did now sit on his throne. 

How far he was right in this conjecture, and 
what he ought to think of his mother, — how 
far she was privy to this murder, and whether 
by her consent or knowledge, or without, it 
came to pass, — were the doubts which con- 
tinually harassed and distracted him. 

A rumor had reached the ear of young 
Hamlet, that an apparition exactly resembling 
the dead king his father, had been seen by the 
soldiers upon watch, on the platform before 
the palace at midnight, for two or three nights 
successively. The figm-e came constantly 
clad in the same suit of armor, from head to 
foot, which the dead king was known to have 
worn ". and they who saw it (Hamlet's bosom- 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK, 157 

friend Horatio was one) agreed in their testi- 
mony as to the manner and time of its appear 
ance : that it came just as the clock struck 
cwelve ; that it looked pale, with a face more 
of sorrow than of anger; that its beard was 
grisly, and the color a sablt silvered, as they 
had seen it in his lifetime : that it made no 
answer when they spoke to it, yet once they 
thought it lifted up its head, and addressed 
itself to motion as if it were about to speak ; 
but in that moment the morning cock crew, 
and it shrunk in haste away, and vanished out 
of their sight. 

The young prince, strangely amazed at their 
relation, which was too consistent and agree- 
ing with itself to disbelieve, concluded that it 
was his father's ghost which they had seen, 
and determined to take his watch with the sol- 
diers that night, that he might have a chance 
of seeing it : for he reasoned with himself, that 
such an appearance did not come for nothing, 
but that the ghost had something to impart, 
and though it had been silent hitherto, yet it 
would speak to him. And he waited with im- 
patience for the coming of night. 

When night came he took his stand with 
Horatio and Marcellus, one of the guard, upon 
the platform, where this apparition was accus- 
tomed to walk : and it being a cold night, and 
the air unusually raw and nipping, Hamlet 
and Horatio and their companion fell into 
some talk about the coldness of the nighti 



158 • TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

which was sudden y broken off by Horatio 
announcing that the ghost was coming. 

At the sight of his father's spirit, Hamlet 
was struck with a sudden surprise and fear. 
He at first called on the angels and heavenly 
ministers to defend them, for he knew not 
whether it were a good spirit or bad: whether 
it came for good or for evil: his father 
looked upon him so piteously, and as it were 
desiring to have conversation with him, and 
did in all respects appear so like himself as 
he was when he lived, that Hamlet could not 
help addressing him: he called him by his 
name Hamlet, King, Father! and conjured 
him that he would tell the reason why he had 
left his grave, where they had seen him 
quietly bestowed, to come again and visit the 
earth and the moonlight: and besought him 
that he would let them know if there was 
anything which they could do to give peace 
to his spirit. And the ghost beckoned to 
Hamlet, that he should go with him to some 
more removed place, where they might be 
alone: and Horatio and Marcellus would 
have dissuaded the young prince from follow- 
ing it, for they feared lest it should be some 
evil spirit, who would tempt him to the neigh- 
boring sea, or the top of some dreadful clifi, 
and there put on some horrible shape which 
might deprive the prince of his reason. But 
their counsels and entreaties could not alter 
Hamlet's determination, who cared too 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 159 

/ittle about life to fear the losing of it ; and 
as to his soul, he said, what could the spirit 
do to that, being a thing immortal as itself ? 
And he felt as hardy as a lion ; and bursting 
from them, who did all they could to hold him, 
he followed whithersoever the spirit led him. 

And when they were alone together the 
spirit broke silence, and told him that he was 
the ghost of Hamlet, his father, who had been 
cruelly murdered, and he told the manner oi 
it ; that it was done by his own brother Claud- 
ius, Hamlet's uncle, as Hamlet had already 
but too much suspected, for the hope of suc- 
ceeding to his bed and crown. That as he 
was sleeping in his garden, his custom always 
in the afternoon, this treasonous brother stole 
upon him in his sleep, and poured the juice 
of poisonous henbane into his ears, which has 
such an antipathy to the life of man, that 
swift as quicksilver it courses through all tne 
veins of the body, baking up the blood, and 
spreading a crust-like leprosy all over the 
skin : thus sleeping, by a brother's hand he 
was cut off at once, from his crown, his queen, 
and his life : and he adjured Hamlet, if he 
did ever his dear father love, that he would 
revenge his foul murder. And the ghost 
lamented to his son, that his mother should so 
fall off from virtue as to prove false to the 
wedded love of her first husband, and to 
marry his murderer: but he cautioned Ham- 
let, howsoever he proceeded in his revenge 
against his wicked uncle, by no means to act 



x5o TALES FROM SHAKSFEARE. 

any violence against the person of his mother, 
but to leave her to Heaven, and to the stings 
and thorns of conscience. And Hamlet prom 
ised to observe the ghost's direction in all 
things, and the ghost vanished. 

And when Hamlet was left alone, he took 
up a solemn resolution, that all he had in his 
memory, all that he had ever learned by books 
or observation, should be instantly forgotten 
by him, and nothing live in his brain but the 
memory of what the ghost had told him, and 
enjoined him to do. And Hamlet related the 
particulars of the conversation which had 
passed to none but his dear friend Horatio ; 
and he enjoined both to him and Marcellus 
the strictest secrecy as to what they had seen 
that night. 

The terror which the sight of the ghost had 
left upon the senses of Hamlet, he being weak 
and dispirited before, almost unhinged his 
mind, and drove him beside his reason. And 
he, fearing that it would continue to have this 
effect, which might subject him to observation 
and set his uncle upon his guard, if he sus- 
pected that he was meditating anything against 
him, or that Hamlet really knew more of his 
father's death than he professed, took up a 
strange resolution, from that time to counter- 
feit as if he were really and truly mad ; think- 
ing that he would be less an object of suspicion 
when his uncle should believe him incapable 
of any serious project, and that his real per- 
turbation of mind would be best covered ano 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. i6l 

pass concealed under a disguise of pretended 
lunacy. 

From this time Hamlet affected a certain 
wildness and strangeness in his apparel, his 
speech, and behavior, and did so excellently 
counterfeit the madman, that the king and 
queen were both deceived, and not thinking 
his grief for his father's death a sufficient cause 
to produce such a distemper, for they knew 
not of the appearance of the ghost, they con- 
cluded that his malady was love, and they 
thought they had found out the object. 

Before Hamlet fell into the melancholy way 
which has been related, he had dearly loved a 
fair maid called Q2]Aglia» the daughter of Pplp- 
nius, the king's chief councilor in affairs of state. 
He hadr "serTT'hef'lHtters and rings, and made 
many tenders of his affection to her, and im- 
portuned her witL love in honorable fashion : 
and she had given belief to his vows and im- 
portunities. But the melancholy which he fell 
into latterly had made him neglect her, and 
from the time he conceived the project of 
counterfeiting madness, he affected to treat 
her with unkindness, and a sort of rudeness ; 
but she, good lady, rather than reproach him 
with being false to her, persuaded herself that 
it was nothing but the disease in his mind, and 
no settled unkindness, which had made him 
less observant of her than formerly ; and she 
compared the faculties of his once noble mind 
and excellent understanding, impaired as they 
were with the deep melancholy that oppressed 
II 



i62 . TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

him, to sweet bells which in themselves are 
capable of most excellent music, but when 
jangled out of tune, or rudely handled, produce 
only a harsh and unpleasing sound. 

Though the rough business which Hamlet 
had in hand, the revenging of his father's death 
upon his murderer, did not suit with the play- 
ful state of courtship, or admit of the society 
of so idle a passion as love now seemed to him, 
yet it could not hinder but that soft thoughts 
of his Ophelia would come between ; and in 
one of these moments, when he thought that 
his treatment of this gentle lady had been 
unreasonably harsh, he wrote her a letter full 
of wild starts of passion and extravagant terms, 
such as agreed with his supposed madness, 
but mixed with some gentle touches of affection, 
which could not but show to this honored lady, 
that a deep love for her yet lay at the bottom 
of his heart, He bade her to doubt the stars 
were fire, and to doubt that the sun did move, 
to doubt truth to be a liar, but never to doubt 
that he loved ; with more of such extravagant 
phrases. This letter Ophelia dutifully showed 
to her father, and the old man thought himself 
bound to communicate it to the king and queen, 
who from that time supposed that the true 
cause of Hamlet's madness was love. And 
the queen wished that the good beauties of 
Ophelia might be the happy cause of his wild- 
ness, for so she hoped that her virtues might 
happily restore him to his accustomed way 
again, to both their honors. 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 163 

But Hamlet's malady lay deeper than she 
supposed, or than could be so cured. His 
father's ghost, which he had seen, still haunted 
his imagination, and the sacred injunction to 
revenge his murder gave him no rest till it 
was accomplished. Every hour of delay seemed 
to him a sin, and a violation of his father's 
commands. Yet how to compass the death of 
the king, surrounded as he constantly was with 
his guards, was no easy matter. Or if it had 
been, the presence of the queen, Hamlet's 
mother, who was generally with the king, was 
a restraint upon his purpose, which he could 
not break through. Besides, the very circum- 
stance that the usurper was his mother's hus- 
band, filled him with some remorse, and still 
blunted the edge of his purpose. The mere 
act of putting a fellow-creature to death was 
in itself odious and terrible to a disposition 
naturally so gentle as Hamlet's was. His 
very melancholy, and the dejection of spirits 
he had so long been in, produced an irresolute- 
ness and wavering of purpose, which kept him 
from proceeding to extremities. Moreover, 
he could not help having some scruples upon 
his mind, whether the spirit which he had seen 
was indeed his father, or whether it might not 
be the devil, who he had heard has power to 
take any form he pleases, and who might 
have assumed his father's shape only to take 
advantage of his weakness and his melancholy, 
to drive him to the doing of so desperate an 
act as murder. And he determined that he 



i64 ■ TALES FROM SIfAKSPEARE. 

would have more certain grounds to go upon 
than a vision, or apparition, which might be a 
delusion. 

While he was in this irresolute mind, there 
icame to the court certain players, in whom 
Hamlet formerly used to take delight, and 
particularly to hear one of them speak a tragical 
speech, describing the death of old Priam, king 
of Troy, with the grief of Hecuba, his queen. 
Hamlet welcomed his old friends the flayers, 
and remembering how that speech had formerly 
given him pleasure, requested the player to 
repeat it ; which he did in so lively a manner, 
setting forth the cruel murder of the feeble 
old king, with the destruction of his people 
and city by fire, and the mad grief of the old 
queen, running barefoot up and down the 
palace, with a poor clout upon that head where 
a crown had been, and with nothing but a 
blanket upon her loins, snatched up in haste, 
where she had worn a royal robe; that not only 
it drew tears from all that stood by, who thought 
they saw the real scene, so lively was it repre- 
sented, but even the player himself delivered 
it with a broken voice and real tears. This 
put Hamlet upon thinking, if that player could 
so work himself up to passion by a mere ficti- 
tious speech, to weep for one that he had never 
seen, for Hecuba, that had been dead so many 
hundred years, how dull was he, who having a 
real motive and cue for passion, a real king 
and a dear father murdered, was yet so little 
moved, that his revenge all this while had 



fiAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 165 

seemed to have slept in dull and muddy for 
getfulness ! And while he meditated on actors 
and acting, and the powerful effects which a 
good play, represented to the life, has upon 
the spectator, he remembered the instance of 
some murderer, who seeing a murder on the 
stage, was by the mere force of the scene and 
resemblance of circumstances so affected, that 
on the spot he confessed the crime which he 
had committed. And he determined that 
these players should play something like the 
murder of his father before his uncle, and he 
would watch narrowly what effect it might have 
upon him, and from his looks he would be able 
to gather with more certainty if he were the 
murderer or not. To this effect he ordered a 
play to be prepared, to the representation of 
which he invited the king and queen, 
f' The story of the play was of a murder done 
'/in Vienna upon a duke. The duke's name was 
Gonzago, his wife Baptista. The play showed 
how one Lucianus, a near relation to the duke, 
poisoned him in his garden for his estate, and 
how the murderer in a short time after got the 
love of Gonzago's wife. 7 

At the representation 6f this play, the king, 
who did not know the trap which was laid for 
him, was present, with his queen and the 
whole court; Hamlet sitting attentively near 
him to observe his looks. The play began 
Vvith a conversation between Gonzago and his 
wife, in which the lady made many protesta 
tions of love, and of never marrying a second 



1 66 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

husband, if she should outlive Gonzago ; wish 
ing she. might be accursed if ever she took a 
second husband, and adding that no woman 
ever did so but those wicked women who kill 
their first husbands. Hamlet observed the king, 
his uncle, change color at this expression, and 
that it was as bad as wormwood both to him 
and to the queen. But when Lucianus, accord- 
ing to the story, came to poison Gonzago sleep- 
ing in the garden, the strong resemblance 
which it bore to his own wicked act upon the 
late king, his brother, whom he had poisoned 
in his garden, so struck upon the conscience 
of this usurper, that he was unable to sit out the 
rest of the play, but on a sudden calling for 
lights to his chamber, and affecting or partly 
feeling a sudden sickness, he abruptly left the 
theater. The king being departed, the play 
was given over. Now Hamlet had seen 
enough to feel satisfied that the words of the 
ghost were true, and no illusion; and in a fit 
of gayety, like that which comes over a man 
who suddenly has some great doubt or scruple 
resolved, he swore to Horatio, that he would 
take the ghost's word for a thousand pounds. 
But before he could make up his resolution as 
to what measures of revenge he should take, 
now he was certainly informed that his uncle 
was his father's murderer, he was sent for by 
the queen, his mother, to a private conference 
in her closet 

It was by desire of the king that the queen 
sent for Hamlet, that she might signify to hei 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. iS") 

son how much his late behavior had dis- 
pleased them both; and the king, wishing to 
know all that passed at that conference, and 
thinking that the too partial report of a 
mother might let slip some part of Hamlet's 
words, Polonius, was ordered to plant him- 
self behind the hangings in the queen's 
closet, where he might hear all that passed. 
This artifice was particularly adapted to the 
disposition of Polonius, who was a man 
grown old in crooked maxims and delighted 
to get at the knowlege of matters in an in- 
direct and cunning way. 

Hamlet came to his mother, who began 
to tax him in the roundest way with his 
actions and behavior, and she told him that 
he had given great offense to /n's father, 
whom, because he had married her, she 
called Hamlet's father. Hamlet, sorely in- 
dignant that she should give so dear a name 
as father seemed to him, to a wretch who 
was indeed no better than the murderer of 
his true father, with some sharpness replied, 
' 'Mother, you have much offended my father ^ 
The queen said that was but an idle answer. 
"As good as the question deserved," said 
Hamlet. The queen asked him if he had 
forgotten who it was he was speaking to? 
"Alas!" replied Hamlet, "I wish I 
could forget. You are the queen your hus- 
band's brother's wife; and you are my 
mother; I wish you were not what you are." 



f 68 TALES FEOM SHAKSPEARE. 

" Nay, then," said the queen, " if you show me 
so little respect, I will send those to you that 
can speak," and was going to send the king or 
Polonius to him. But Hamlet would not let 
her go, now he had her alone, till he had tried 
if his words could not bring her to some sense 
of her wicked life ; and, taking her by the wrist, 
he held her fast, and made her sit down. She, 
affrighted at his earnest manner, and fearful 
lest in his lunacy he should do her a mischief, 
cried out : and a voice was heard from behind 
the hangings, " Help, help the queen ! " which 
Hamlet hearing, and verily thinking it was the 
king himself there concealed, he drew his 
sword, and stabbed at the place where the 
voice came from, as he would have stabbed a 
rat that ran there, till the voice, ceasing, he 
concluded the person to be dead. But when 
he dragged forth the body, it was not the king, 
but Polonius, the old officious councilor, that 
had planted himself as a spy behind the hang- 
ings. " O me ! " exclaimed the queen, " what 
a rash and bloody deed you have done ! " 
" A bloody deed, mother," replied Hamlet ; 
" but not so bad as yours, who killed a king 
and married his brother. " Hamlet had gone 
too far to leave off here. He was now in the 
humor to speak plainly to his mother, and he 
pursued it. And though the faults of parents 
are to be tenderly treated by their children, 
yet in the case of great crimes the son may 
have leave to speak even to his own mother 
with same harshness, so as that harshness is 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 169 

meant for her good, and to turn her from her 
wicked ways, and not done for the purpose of 
upbraiding. And now this virtuous prince did 
in moving terms represent to the queen the 
heinousness of her offense, in being so forget- 
ful of the dead king, his father, as in so short 
a space of time to marry with his brother and 
reputed murderer : such an act as, after the 
vows which she had sworn to her first husband, 
was enough to make all vows of women sus- 
pected, and all virtue to be accounted hypocrisy, 
wedding contracts to be less than gamesters' 
oaths, and religion to be a mockery and a 
mere form of words. He said she had done 
such a deed that the heavens blushed at it, 
and the earth was sick of her because of it. 
And he showed her two pictures, the one of 
the late king, her first husband, and the other 
of the present king, her second husband, and 
he bade her mark the difference : what a grace 
was on the brow of his father, how like a god 
he looked ! the curls of Apollo, the forehead 
of Jupiter, the eye of Mars, and a posture like 
to Mercury newly alighted on some heaven- 
kissing hill ! this man had been her husband. 
And then he showed her whom she had got in 
his stead : how like a blight or a mildew he 
looked, for so he had blasted his wholesome 
brother. And the queen was sore ashamed 
that he should so turn her eyes inward upon 
her soul, which she now saw so black and 
deformed. .And he asked her how she could 
conlinue to live with this man, and be a wife 



l^O . TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

to him, who had murdered her first husband, 
and got the crown by as false means as a thief 
— And just as he spoke, the ghost of his father, 
such as he was in Iiis lifetime, and such as he 
had lately seen it, entered the room, and Ham- 
let, in great terror, asked what it would have ; 
and the ghost said that it came to remind him 
of the revenge he had promised, which Ham- 
let seemed to have forgot : and the ghost bade 
him speak to his mother, for the grief and 
terror she was in would else kill her. It then 
vanished, and was seen by none but Hamlet, 
neither could he by pointing to where it stood, 
or by any description, make his mother per- 
ceive it, who was terribly frightened all this 
while to hear him conversing, as it seemed to 
her, with nothing : and she imputed it to the 
disorder of his mind. But Hamlet begged her 
not to flatter her wicked soul in such a manner 
as to think that it was his madness, and not 
her own offenses, which had brought his father's 
spirit again on the earth. And he bade her 
feel his pulse, how temperately it beat, not like 
a madman's. And he begged of her, with 
tears, to confess herself to Heaven for what 
was past, and for the future to avoid the com- 
pany of the king, and be no more as a wife to 
him : and when she should show herself a 
mother to him, by respecting his father's 
memory, he would ask a blessing of her as a 
son. And she promising to observe his di 
rections,the conference ended. 

And now Hamlet was at leisure to considei 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 171 

who it was that in his unfortunate rashness he 
had killed : and when he came to see that it 
was Polonius, the father of the lady Ophelia, 
whom he so dearly loved, he drew apart the 
dead body, and, his spirits being a little quieter, 
he wept for what he had done. 

This unfortunate death of Polonius gave 
the king a pretense for sending Hamlet out of 
the kingdom. He would willingly have put 
him to death, fearing him as dangerous ; but 
he dreaded the people, who loved Hamlet; 
and the queen, who, with all her faults, doted 
upon the prince her son. So this subtle king, 
under pretense of providing for Hamlet's safety, 
that he might not be called to account for Polo- 
nius's death, caused him to be conveyed on 
board a ship bound for England, under the 
care of two courtiers, by whom he dispatched 
letters to the English court, which at that time 
was in subjection and paid tribute to Denmark, 
requiring, for special reasons there pretended, 
that Hamlet should be put to death as soon as 
he landed on English ground. Hamlet, suspect- 
ing some treachery, in the night-time secretly 
got at the letters, and skillfully erasing his own 
name, he in the stead of it put in the names of 
those' two courtiers who had the charge of him 
to be put to death : then sealing up the letters, 
he put them into their place again. Soon after 
the ship was attacked by pirates, and a sea- 
fight commenced : in the course of which Ham- 
let, desirous to show his valor, with sword in 
hand singly boarded the enemy's vessel, while 



172 . TALES FR OM SHA KSPEA RE. 

his own ship, in a cowardly manner, bore away, 
and leaving him to his fate the two courtiers 
made the best of their way to England, charged 
with those letters the sense of which Hamlet 
had altered to their own deserved destruction. 

The pirates who had the prince in their 
power showed themselves gentle enemies ; and 
knowing whom they had got prisoner, in the 
hope that the prince might do them a good 
turn at court in recompense for any favor 
they might show him, they set Hamlet on shore 
at the nearest port in Denmark. From that 
place Hamlet wrote to the king, acquainting 
him with the strange chance which had brought 
him back to his own country, and saying that 
on the next day he should present himself 
before his majesty. When he got home a sad 
spectacle offered itself the first thing to his 
eyes. 

This was the funeral of the young and beau- 
tiful Ophelia, his once dear mistress. The 
wits of this young lady had begun to turn ever 
since her poor father's death. That he should 
die a violent death, and by the hands of the 
prince whom she loved, so affected this tender 
young maid, that in a little time she grew per- 
fectly distracted, and would go about giving 
flowers away to the ladies of the court, and 
saying that they were for her father's burial,, 
singing songs about love and about death, and 
sometimes such as had no meaning at all, as if 
she had no memory of what happened to her. 
There was a willow which grew slanting ovei 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 173 

a brook, and reflected its leaves in the stream, 
To this brook she came one day when she was 
unwatched, with garlands she had been making, 
mixed up of daisies and nettles, flowers and 
weeds together, and clambering up to hang her 
garland upon the boughs of the willow, abough 
broke and precipitated this fair young ma'.d, 
garland, and all that she had gathered, into 
the water, where her clothes bore her up for a 
while, during which she chanted scraps of old 
tunes, like one insensible to her own distress, 
or as if she were a creature natural to that 
element : but long it was not, before her gar- 
ments heavy with the wet, pulled her in from 
her melodious singing to a muddy and miser- 
able death. It was the funeral of this fair 
maid which her brother Laertes was celebrat- 
ing, the king and queen and whole court being 
present, when Hamlet arrived. He knew not 
what all this show imported, but stood on one 
side, not inclining to interrupt the ceremony. 
He saw the flowers strewed upon her grave, 
as the custom was in maiden burials, which 
the queen herself threw in ; and as she threw 
them she said, " Sweets to the sweet ! I thought 
to have decked thy bride-bed, sweet maid, not 
to have strewed thy grave. Thou shouldst 
have been my Hamlet's wife." And he heard 
her brother wish that violets might spring from 
her grave : and he saw him leap into the 
grave all frantic with grief, and bid the attend- 
ants pile mountains of earth upon him, that 
he mi^ht be buried with her. AndHamlet's 



174 TALES F2?0M SHAKSPEARE. 

love for this fair maid came back to him, and 
he could not bear that, a brother should show 
so much transport of grief, for he tliought that 
ne loved Ophelia better than forty thousand 
brothers. Then discovering himself, he leaped 
into the grave where Laertes was, all as frantic 
or more frantic than he, and Laertes, knowing 
him to be Hamlet, who had been the cause 
of his father's and his sister's death, grap- 
pled him by the throat as an enemy, till 
the attendants parted them : and Hamlet, 
after the funeral, excused his hasty act in 
throwing himself into the grave as if to brave 
Laertes ; but he said he could not bear that 
any one should seem to outgo him in grief 
for the death of the fair Ophelia. And for 
the time those two noble youths seemed rec- 
onciled. 

But out of the grief and anger of Laertes for 
the death of his father and Ophelia, the king. 
Hamlet's wicked uncle, contrived destruction 
for Hamlet. He set on Laertes, under cover 
of peace and reconciliation, to challenge Ham- 
let to a friendly trial of skill at fencing, which 
Hamlet accepting, a day was appointed to try 
the match. At this match all the court was 
present, and Laertes, by direction of the king 
prepared a poisoned weapon. Upon this match 
great wagers were laid by the courtiers, as both 
Hamlet and Laertes were known to excel at 
this sword-play ; and Hamlet taking up the foils 
chose one, not at all suspecting the treachery 
of Laertes, or being careful to examine Laerte;^' 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. v^\ 

weapon, who, instead of a foil or blunted 
sword, which the laws of fencing require, 
made use of one with a point, and poisoned. 
At first Laertes did but play with Hamlet, and 
suffered him to gain some advantages, which 
the dissembling king magnified and extolled 
beyond measure, drinking to Hamlet's success, 
and wagering rich bets upon the issue : but 
after a few passes, Laertes, growing warm, 
made a deadly thrust at Hamlet with his poi- 
soned weapon, and gave him a mortal blow. 
Hamlet, incensed, but not knowing the whole 
of the treachery, in the scuffle exchanged his 
own innocent weapon for Laertes' deadly one, 
and with a thrust of Laertes' own sword repaid 
Laertes home, who was thus justly caught in 
his own treachery. In this instant the queen 
shrieked out that she was poisoned. She had 
inadvertently drunk out of a bowl which the 
king had prepared for Hamlet, in case that 
being warm in fencing he should call for drink ; 
into this the treacherous king had infused a 
deadly poison, to make sure of Hamlet if 
Laertes had failed. He had forgotten to warn 
the queen of the bowl, which she drank of, 
and imrtiediately died, exclaiming with her last 
breath that she was poisoned. Hamlet, sus- 
pecting some treachery, ordered the doors to be 
shut, while he sought it out. Laertes told him 
to seek no further, for he was the traitor ; and 
feeling his life go away with the wound which 
tLamlet had given him, he made confession of 
the treachery he had used, and how he had 



t76 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE, 

fallen a victim to it : and he told Hamlet of 
the envenomed point, and said that Hamlet 
had not half an hour to live, for no medicine 
could cure him ; and begging forgiveness of 
Hamlet, he died, with his last words accusing 
the king of being the contriver of the mischief. 
When Hamlet saw his end draw near, there 
being yet some venom left upon the sword, he 
suddenly turned upon his false uncle, and 
thrust the point of it to his heart, fulfilling the 
promise which he had made to his father's 
spirit, whose injunction was now accomplished, 
and his foul murder revenged upon the mur- 
derer. Then Hamlet, feeling his breath fail 
and life departing, turned to his dear friend 
Horatio, who had been spectator of this fatal 
tragedy ; and with his dying breath requested 
him that he would live to tell his story to the 
world (for Horatio had made a motion as if he 
would slay himself to accompany the prince 
in death) ; and Horatio promised that he ■ 
would make a true report as one that was privy 
to all the circumstances. And, thus satisfied, 
the noble heart of Hamlet cracked : and Ho- 
ratio and the bystanders with many tears com- 
mended the spirit of their sweet prince to the 
guardianship of angels. For Hamlet was a lov-" 
ing and a gentle prince, and greatly beloved fof 
his many noble and prince-like qualities ; and 
if he had lived would no doubt have proved 
a most royal and complete king to Danmark. 



THE TEMPEST. 

There was a certain island inthesea, il:e 
only inhabitants of which were anoldnmn 
whose name was Prosper©, and his daughter 
Miranda, a very beautiful young lady. She 
came to this island so young, that she had no 
memory of having seen any other human face 
than her father's. 

They lived in a cave or cell, made out of a 
rock : it was divided into several apartments, 
one of which Prospero called his study; there 
he kept his books, which chiefly treated of 
magic, a study at that time much affected by 
all learned men : and the knowledge of this art 
he found very useful to him : for being thrown 
by a strange chance upon this island, which 
had been enchanted by a witch called Sycorax, 
who died there a short time before his arrival, 
Prospero, by virtue of his art, released many 
good spirits that Sycorax had imprisoned in 
the bodies of large trees, because they had 
refused to execute her wicked commands. 
These gentle spirits were ever after obedient 
to the will of Prospero. Of these Ariel wag 
the chief. 

The lively little sprite Ariel had nothing 
mischievous in his nature, except that he took 

12 177 



S78 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

rather too much pleasure in tormenting an uglif? 
monster called Caliban, for he owed him a 
grudge because he was the son of his old ene- 
my Sycorax. This Caliban Prospero found in 
the woods, a strange misshapen thing, far less 
• human in form than an ape : he took him 
home to his cell, and taught him to speak 
and Prospero would have been very kind to 
him, but the bad nature which Caliban inher- 
ited from his mother Sycorax would not let 
him learn anything good or useful : therefore 
he was employed like a slave, to fetch wood, 
and do the most laborious offices ; and Ariel 
had the charge of compelling him to these 
services. 

When Caliban was lazy and neglected his 
work, Ariel (who was invisible to all eyes but 
Prospero's) would come slyly and pinch him, 
and sometimes tumble him down in the mire ; 
and then Ariel, in the likeness of an ape, 
would make mouths at him. Then swiftly 
changing his shape, in the likeness of a hedge- 
hog, he would lie tumbling in Caliban's way, 
who feared the hedgehog's sharp quills would 
prick his bare feet. With a variety of such- 
like vexatious tricks Ariel would often torment 
him, whenever Caliban neglected the work 
which Prospero commanded him to do. 

Having these powerful spirits obedient to 
his will, Prospero could by their means com- 
mand the winds and the waves of the sea. 
By his orders they raised a violent storm, in 
the midst of which, and struggling with the 



THE TEMPEST. 179 

Arild sea-waves that every moment threatened 
to swallow it up, he showed his daughter a 
fine large ship, which he told her was full of 
living beings like themselves. " O my dear 
iather," said she, " if by your art you have 
raised this dreadful storm, have pity on their 
sad distress. See ! the vessel will be dashed 
to pieces. Poor souls ! they will all perish. 
If I had power I would sink the sea beneath 
the earth, rather than the good ship should be 
destroyed, with all the precious souls within 
her." 

" Be not so amazed, daughter Miranda,'* 
said Prospero ; " there is no harm done. I 
have so ordered it that no person in the ship 
shall receive any hurt. What I have done has 
been in care of you, my dear child. You are 
ignorant who you are, or where you came 
from, and you know no more of me but that I 
am your father, and live in this poor cave. 
Can you remember a time before you came ta 
this cell ? I think you cannot, for you were 
not then three years of age." 

" Certainly I can, sir," replied Miranda. 

" By what ? " asked Prospero : " by any 
other house or person ? Tell me what you 
can remember, my child." 

Miranda said, " It seems to me like the 
recollection of a dream. But had I not once 
four or five women who attended upon me ? " 

Prospero answered, " You had, and more. 
How is it that this still lives in your mind. 
Do you remember how you came here ? " 



i So TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

** No, sir," said Miranda, " I remember 
nothing more." 

"Twelve years ago, Miranda," continued 
Prospero, " I was duke of Milan, and you 
were a princess, and my only heir. I had a 
younger brother whose name was Antonio, 
to whom I trusted everything ; and as I was 
fond of retirement and deep study, I com- 
monly left the management of my state affairs 
to your uncle, my false brother (for so indeed 
he proved). I, neglecting all worldly ends, 
buried among my books, did dedicate my 
whole time to the bettering of my mind. My 
brother Antonio being thus in. possession of 
my power, began to think himself the duke 
indeed. The opportunity I gave him of 
making himself popular among my subjects 
awakened in his bad nature a proud ambition 
to deprive me of my dukedom ; this he soon 
effected with the aid of the King of Naples, a 
powerful prince, who was my enemy." 

"Wherefore," said Miranda, "did they not 
that hour destroy us ? " 

" My child," answered her father, " they 
durst not, so dear was the love that my people 
bore me. Antonio carried us on board a ship, 
and when we were some leagues out at sea, he 
forced us into a small boat, without either 
tackle, sail, or mast : there he left us as he 
thought to perish. But a kind lord of mj 
court, one Gonzalo, who loved me, had 
privately placed in the boat, water, provisions, 
apparel, and some books which I prize above 
my dukedom." 



THE TEMPEST. 161 



"O my father," said Miranda, "what a 
trouble must I have been to you then ! " 

" No, my love," said Prospero, " you were 
a little cherub that did preserve me. Your 
innocent smiles made me to bear up against 
my misfortunes. Our food lasted till we 
landed on this desert island, since when my 
chief delight has been in teaching you, Mi- 
fanda, and well have you profited by my m- 
structions." 

" Heaven thank you, my dear father, said 
Miranda. " Now pray tell me, sir, your reason 
for raising this sea-storm." 

"Know, then," said her father, "that by 
means of this storm my enemies, the king of 
Naples and my cruel brother, are cast ashore 
upon this island." 

Having so said, Prospero gently touched his 
daughter with his magic wand, and she fell fast 
asleep : for the spirit Ariel just then presented 
himself before his master, to give an account 
of the tempest, and hov^^ he had disposed of the 
ship's company ; and, though the spirits were 
always invisible to Miranda, Prospero did not 
choose she should hear him holding converse 
(as' would seem to her) with the empty air. 

" Well, my brave spirit," said Prospero to 
Ariel, " how have you performed your task? " 

Ariel gave a lively description of the storm, 
and of the terror of the mariners ; and how 
the king's son, Ferdinand, was the first who 
leaped into the sea, and his father thought he 
jaw this dear son swallowed up by the waves 



tS2 'tales from shakspeare, 

and lost. " But he is safe," said Ariel, " in a 
corner of the isle, sitting with his arms folded 
sadly, lamenting the loss of the king his father, 
whom he concludes drowned. Not a hair of 
his head is injured, and his princely garments, 
though drenched in the sea-waves, look fresher 
than before." 

" That's my delicate Ariel," said Prospero. 
" Bring him hither : mj^ daughter must see 
ihis young prince. Where is the king, and 
my brother t " 

" I left them," answered Ariel, " searching 
for Ferdinand, whom they have little hopes 
of finding, thinking they saw him perish. Of 
the ship's crew not one is missing ; though 
each one thinks himself the only one saved : 
and the ship, though invisible to them, is safe 
in the harbor." 

"Ariel," said Prospero, " thy charge is faith- 
fully performed ; but there is more work yet." 

" Is there more work ? " said Ariel. " Let 
me remind you, master, you have promised me 
my liberty. I pray, remember, I have done 
you worthy service, told you no lies, piade no 
mistakes, served you without grudge or grum- 
bling." 

" How now," said Prospero. " You do not 
recollect what a torment I freed you from. 
Have you forgotten the wicked witch Sycorax, 
who with age and envy was almost bent double ? 
Where was she born ? Speak •. tell me." 

" Sir, in Algiers," said Ariel. 

" Oh, was she so ? " said Prospero. "I must 



THE TEMPEST. 183 

recount what you have been, which I find you 
do not remember. This bad witch Sycorax, 
for her witchcrafts, too terrible to enter human 
hearing, was banished from Algiers, and here 
left by the sailors ; and because you were a 
spirit too delicate to execute her wicked com- 
mands, she shut you up in a tree, where I found 
you howling. This torment, remember, I did 
free you from." 

" Pardon me, dear master," said Ariel, 
ashamed to seem ungrateful ; " I will obey 
your commands." 

" Do so," said Prospero, " and I will set you 
free." He then gave orders what farther he 
would have him do, and away went Ariel, first 
to where he had left Ferdinand, and found him 
still sitting on the grass in the same melan- 
choly posture. 

•' O my young gentleman," said Ariel, when 
he saw him, 'i I will soon move you. You 
must be brought, I find, for the Lady Miranda 
to have a sight of your pretty person. Come, 
sir, follow me." He then began singing, 

" Full fathom five thy father lies : 
Of his bones are coral made ; 
Those are pearls that were his eyes ; 

Nothing of him that doth fade, 
But doth suffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange. 
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell : 
Hark, now I hear them, ding-dong hell." 

This strange news of his lost father soon 
roused the prince from the stupid fit into which 



i84 .^ 'ALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

iiQ had fallen. He followed in amazement the 
.sound of Ariel's voice, till it led him to Prospero 
and Miranda, who were seated under the shade 
oi a large tree. Now Miranda had never seen 
a man before, except her own father. 

" Miranda," said Prospero, " tell me what 
you are looking at yonder." 

" O father," said Miranda, in a strange sur- 
prise, " surely that is a spirit. Lord ! how it 
looks about ! Believe me, sir, it is a beautiful 
creature. Is it not a spirit ? " 

" No, girl," answered her father ; " it eats, 
and sleeps, and has senses such as we have. 
This young man you see was in the ship. He 
is somewhat altered by grief, or you might 
call him a handsome person. He has lost his 
companions, and is wandering about to find 
them." 

Miranda, who thought all men had grave faces 
and gray beards like her father, was delighted 
with the appearance of this beautiful young 
prince ; and Ferdinand, seeing such a lovely 
lady in this desert place, and from the strange 
sounds he had heard, expected nothing but 
wonders, thought he was upon an enchanted 
island, and that Miranda was the goddess of 
the place, and as such he began to address 
her. 

She timidly answered, she was no goddess, 
but a simple maid, and was going to give an 
account of herself, when Prospero interrupted 
her. He was well pleased to find they admired 
each other, for he plainly perceived they had 



THE TEMPEST. 185 

(as we say) fallen in love at first sight: there- 
fore advancing forward, he addressed the 
prince with a stern air, telling him, he came 
to the island as a spy, to take it from him Avho 
was the lord of it. "Follow me," said he, "I 
will tie your neck and feet together. You 
shall drink sea-water: shell-fish, withered 
roots, and husks of acorns shall be yourfood. " 
"No," said Ferdinand, ''I will resist- such 
entertainment till I see a more powerful 
enemy," and drew his sword: but Prospero, 
waving his magic wand, fixed him to the spot 
where he stood, so that he had no power to 
move, 

Miranda hung upon her father, saying, 
"Why are you so ungentle? Have pity, sir; 
I will be his surety. This is the second man 
I ever saw, and to me he seems a true one," 

"Silence, " said her father, "one word more 
will make me chide you, girl ! What ! an advo- 
cate for an impostor! You think there are no 
more such fine men, having seen only him and 
Caliban. I tell you, foolish girl, most men as 
far excel this as he does Caliban." This he 
?aid to prove his daughter's constancy; and 
she replied, "My affections are most humble. 
I have no wish to see a goodlier man." 

"Come on, young man," said Pospero to 
the Prince, "you have no power to disobey 
me," 

' ' I have not indeed, ' ' answered Ferdinand ; 
and not knowing it was by magic he was de- 



t86 . TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE, 

prived of all power of resistance, he was aston- 
ished to find he was so strangely compelled to 
follow Prospero : looking back on Miranda as 
long as he could see her, he said, as he went 
after Prospero into the cave, " My spirits are 
all bound up, as if I were in a dream ; but this 
man's threats, and the weakness which I feel, 
would seem light to me if from my prison I 
might once a day behold this fair maid." 

Prospero kept Ferdinand not long confined 
within the cell : he soon brought out his pris* 
oner, and set him a severe task to perform, tak- 
ing care to let his daughter know the hard labor 
he had imposed on him, and then pretending 
to go into his study, he secretly watched them 
both. 

Prospero had commanded Ferdinand to pile 
up some heavy logs of wood. King's sons not 
being much used to laborious work, Miranda 
soon after found her lover almost dying with 
fatigue. " Alas ! " said she, " do not work so 
haxd ; my father is at his studies ; he is safe 
for these three hours : pray rest yourself." 

" O my dear lady," said Ferdinand, " I dare 
not. I must finish my task before I take my 
rest." 

" If you will sit down," said Miranda, " I will 
carry your logs the while." But this Ferdi 
nand would by no means agree to. Instead of 
a help, Miranda became a hindrance, for they 
began a long conversation, so that the business 
of log-carrying went on very slowly. 

Prospero, who had enjoined Ferdinand this 



THE TEMPEST. iH; 

task merely as a trial of his love, was not at his 
books as his daughter supposed, but was stand- 
ing by them invisible, to overhear what they 
said. 

Ferdinand inquired her name, which she told 
him, saying it was against her father's express 
command she did so. 

Prospero only smiled at this first instance of 
his daughter's disobedience, for having by his 
magic art caused his daughter to fall in love so 
suddenly he was not angry that she showed her 
love by forgetting to obey his commands. And 
he listened well pleased to a long speech of 
Ferdinand's, in which he professed to love her 
above all the ladies he ever saw. 

In answer to his praises of her beauty, which 
he said exceeded all the women in the world, 
she replied, " I do not remember the face of 
any woman, nor have I seen any more men 
than you, my good friend, and my dear father. 
How features are abroad I know not ; but 
believe me, sir, I would not wish any compan 
ion in the world but you, nor can my imagina- 
tion form any shape but y urs that I could like. 
But, sir, I fear I talk to you too freely, and my 
father's precepts I forget. ' 

At this Prospero smiled, and nodded his 
head, as much as to say, " This goes on exactly 
as I could wish ; my girl will be queen erf 
Naples." 

And then Ferdinand, in another fine long 
speech (for young princes speak in courtly 
phrases), told the innocent Miranda he was 



1 88 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

heir to the crown of Naples, and that she 
should be his queen. 

"Ah! sir," said she, "I will answer you 
in plain and holy innocence, I am your 
wife, if you will marry me." 

Prospero prevented Ferdinand's thanks 
by appearing visible before them. 

"Fear nothing, my child," said he; I have 
overheard, and approve of all you have said. 
And Ferdinand, if I have too severely used 
you, I will make you rich amends, by giving 
you my daughter. All your vexations were 
but my trials of your love, and you have nobly 
stood the test. Then as my gift, which your 
true love has worthily purchased, take my 
daughter, and do not smile that I boast she is 
above all praise." He then, telling them that 
he had business which required his presence, 
desired they would sit down and talk until 
he returned; and this command Miranda 
seemed not at all disposed to disobey. 

Prospero left them, and called his spirit 
Ariel, who quickly appeared before him_, 
eager to relate what he had done with Pros- 
pero's brother and the king of Naples. Ariel 
said, he had left them almost out of their 
senses with fear at the strange things he had 
caused them to see and hear. When fatigued 
with wandering about, and famished for want 
of food, he had suddenly set before them a 
delicious banquet, and then, just as they were 
going to eat, he appeared visible before them 



THE TEMPEST. 189 

in the shape of a harpy, a voracious monster 
with wings, and the feast vanished away. 
Then, to their utter amazement, this seeming 
harpy spc5ke to them, reminding tliem of their 
cruelty in driving Prospero from Iiis dulvedom, 
and leaving him and his infant daughter to 
perish \\\ the sea ; saying, that for this cause 
these terrors were suffered to afflict them. 

The king of Naples, and Antonio the false 
brother, repented the injustice they had done 
to Prospero : and Ariel told his master he was 
certain their penitence was sincere, and that 
he, though a spirit, could not but pity them. 

" Then bring them hither, Ariel," said Pros- 
pero : " if you, who are but a spirit, feel for 
their distress, shall not 1, who am a human 
being like themselves, have compassion on 
them ? Bring them quickly, my dainty Ariel." 

Ariel soon returned with the king, Antonio, 
and old Gonzalo in their train, who had fol- 
lowed him wondering at the wild music he 
played in the air to draw them on to his 
master's presence. This Gonzalo was the 
same who had so kindly provided Prospero 
formerly with books and provisions, when his 
wicked brother left him, as he thought, to 
perish in an open boat in the sea. 

Grief and terror had so .stupefied their 
senses, that they did not know Prospero. He 
first discovered himself to the good old Gon- 
zalo, calling him the preserver of his life ; and 
then his brother and the king knew that he 
Vifas th^-j injured Prospero. 



tgo 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE, 



Antonio with tears, and sad words of sorro\? 
and true repentance, implored his brother's 
forgiveness ; and the king expressed his sin- 
cere remorse for having assisted Antonio to 
depose his brother : and Prospero forgave 
them ; and, upon tiieir engaging to restore his 
dukedom, he said to the king of Naples, " I 
have a gift in store for you too ; " and opening 
a door, showed him his son Ferdinand playing 
at chess with Miranda. 

Nothing could exceed the joy of the father 
and the son at this unexpected meeting, for 
they each thought the other drowned in the 
storm. 

"O wonder!" said Miranda, "what noble 
creatures these are ; it must surely be a brave 
world that has such people in it." 

The king of Naples was almost as much as- 
tonished at the beauty and excellent grace of 
the young Miranda as his son had been. 
" Who is this maid ? " said he ; " she seems 
the goddess that has parted us, and brought 
us thus together." " No, sir," answered Fer- 
dinand, smiling to find his father had fallen 
into the same mistake that he had done when 
he first saw Miranda, " she is a mortal, but by 
immortal Providence she is mine ; I chose her 
when I could not ask you, my father, for your 
consent, not thinking you were alive. She is 
the daughter to this Prospero, who is the fa« 
mous duke of Milan, of whose renown I have 
heard so much, but never saw him till now ; 
of him I have received a new life : he has 



THE TEMPEST. 191 

made himself to me a second father, giving 
me this dear lady." 

" Then I must be her father," said the king ; 
"but oh ! how oddly will it sound that I must 
ask my child's forgiveness." 

" No more of that," said Prospero : let us 
not remember our troubles past, since they so 
happily have ended." And then Prospero 
embraced his brother, and again assured him 
of his forgiveness ; and said that a wise, over- 
ruling Providence had permitted that he should 
be driven from his poor dukedom of Milan, 
that his daughter might inherit the crown of 
Naples, for that by their meeting in this desert 
island, it had happened that the king's son had 
loved Miranda. 

These kind words which Prospero spoke, 
meaning to comfort his brother, so filled An- 
tonio with shame and remorse, that he wept 
and vv^as unable to speak; and the kind old 
Gonzalo wept to see this joyful reconciliation, 
and prayed for blessings on the young couple. 
Prospero now told them that their ship was 
safe in the harbor, and the sailors all on board 
her, and that he and his daughter would ac- 
company them home the next morning. " In 
the meantime," said he, "partake of such re- 
freshments as my poor cave affords ; and for 
your evening's entertainment I will relate the 
history of my life from my first landing in this 
desert island." He then called for Caliban to 
prepare some food, and set the cave in order ; 
and the company were astonished at the un- 



J92 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARn.. 



couth form and savage appearance of this ugly 
monster, who (Prospero said) was the only 
attendant he had to wait upon him. 

Before Prospero left the island, he dis- 
missed Ariel from his service, to the great joy 
of that lively little spirit, who though he had 
been a faithful servant to his master, was 
always longing to enjoy his free liberty, to 
wander uncontrolled in the air, like a wild bird, 
under green trees, among pleasant fruits, and 
sweet-smelling flowers. " My quaint Ariel," 
said Prospero to the little sprite when he 
made him free, " I shall miss you ; yet you 
shall have your freedom." "Thank you, my 
dear master," said Ariel ; " but give me leave 
to attend your ship home with prosperous 
gales, before you bid farewell to the assistance 
of your faithful spirit ; and then, master, when 
I am free, how merrily I shall live ! " Here 
Ariel sung this pretty song : 

" Where the bee sucks, there suck I ; 
In a cowslip's bell I lie : 
There I couch when owls do cry. 
On the bat's back I do fly 
After summer merrily. 
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, 
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough." 

Prospero then buried deep in the earth his 
magical books and wand, for he was resolved 
never more to make use of the magic art. And 
having thus overcome his enemies, and being 
reconciled to his brother and the king of 
Naples, nothing now remained to complete his 



THE TEMPEST, 193 

happiness, but to revisit his native land, to 
take possession of his dukedom, and to wit- 
ness the happy nuptials of his daughter 
Miranda and Prince Ferdinand, which the 
king said should be instantly celebrated witfc 
great splendor on their return to Naples. A?. 
which place, under the safe convoy of the 
spirit Ariel, they after a pleasant voyage soon 
arrived. _^ 

13 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 

During the time that France was divided 
into provinces (or dukedoms as they were 
called) there reigned in one of these provinces 
an usurper who had deposed and banished his 
elder brother, the lawful duke. 

The duke, who was thus driven from his 
dominions, retired with a few faithful followers 
to the forest of Arden : and here the good 
duke lived with his loving friends, who had 
put themselves into a voluntary exile for his 
sake, while their land and revenues enriched 
the false usurper ; and custom soon made the 
life of careless ease they led here more sweet 
to them than the pomp and uneasy splendor 
of a courtier's life. Here they lived like the 
old Robin Hood of England, and to this forest 
many noble youths daily resorted from the 
court, and did fleet the time carelessly, as they 
did who lived in the golden age. In the 
summer they lay along under the fine shade of 
the large forest trees, marking the playful 
sports of the wild deer ; and so fond were they 
of these poor dappled fools, who seemed to be 
the native inhabitants of the forest, that it 
grieved them to be forced to kill them to sup- 
ply themselves with venison for their food« 
When the cold winds of winter made the duke 
194 



.^.S- YOU LIKE IT. 195 

feel the change of his adverse fortune, he would 
^dure it patiently and say, " These chiUin^ 
winds which blow upon my body are true 
counselors : they do not flatter, but represent 
truly to me my condition : and though they 
bite sharply, their tooth is nothing like so keen 
as that of unkindness and ingratitude. I find 
that, howsoever men speak against adversity, 
yet some sweet uses are to be extracted from 
it; like the jewel, precious for medicine, which 
is taken from the head of the venomous and 
despised toad." In this manner did the 
patient duke draw a useful moral from every- 
thing that he saw; and by the help of this 
moralizing turn, in that life of his, remote from 
public haunts, he could find tongues ^in trees, 
books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, 
and good in everything. 

The banished duke had an only daughter, 
named Rosalind, whom the usurper, duke 
Frederick, when he banished her father, still 
retained in his court as a companion for his 
own daughter Celia. A strict friendship sub- 
sisted between these ladies, which the disagree- 
ment between their fathers did not in the least 
interrupt, Celia striving by every kindness in 
her power to make amends to Rosalind for the 
;n justice of her own father in deposing the 
father of Rosalind, and whenever the thoughts 
of her father's banishment and her own 
dependence on the false usurper made Rosa- 
iind mehnchoiy, Celia's whole care was to 
comfort and console her. 



%g6 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARR 

One day, when Celia was talking in heir 
usual kind manner to Rosalind, saying, " I pray 
you, Rosalind, my sweet cousin, be merry," a 
messenger entered from the duke, to tell them 
that if they wished to see a wrestling match, 
which was just going to begin, they must come 
instantly to the court before the palace ; and 
Celia, thinking it would amuse Rosalind, agreed 
to go and see it. 

In those times wrestling, which is only 
practiced now by country clowns, was a favor- 
ite sport even in the courts of princes, and 
before fair ladies and princesses. To this 
wrestling match therefore Celia and Rosalind 
went. They found that it was likely to prove 
a very tragical sight ; for a large and powerful 
man, who had long been practiced in the art 
of wrestling, and had slain many men in con- 
tests of this kind, was just going to wrestle with 
a very young man, who, from his extreme youth 
and inexperience in the art, the beholders all 
thought would certainly be killed. 

When the duke saw Celia and Rosalind, he 
said, " How now, daughter and niece, are you 
crept hither to see the wrestling ? You will 
take little delight in it, there is such odds in 
the men : in pity to this young man, I would 
wish to persuade him from wrestling. Speak 
to him, ladies, and see if you can move him." 

The ladies were well-pleased to perform this 
humane office, and first Celia entreated the 
young stranger that he would des) c from the 
attempt; and then Rosalind spo .e so kindly 



AS YOU LIKE 17. 197 

to him, and with such feeling consideration fot 
the danger he was about to undergo, that in- 
stead of being persuaded by her gentle words 
to forego his purpose, all his thoughts were 
bent to distinguish himself by his courage in 
this lovely lady's eyes. He refused the re- 
quest of Celia and Rosalind in such graceful 
and modest words, that they felt still more con- 
cern for him ; he concluded his refusal with 
saying, " I am sorry to deny such fair and ex- 
cellent ladies anything. But let your fair eyes 
and gentle wishes go with me to my trial, 
wherein if I be conquered, there is one shamed 
that was never gracious ; if I am killed, there 
is one dead that is willing to die. I shall do 
my friends no wrong, for I lave none to lament 
me ; the world no injury, for in it I have noth- 
ing ; for I only fill up a place in the world 
which may be better supplied when I have 
made it empty." 

And n( w the wrestling match began. Celia 
wished the young stranger might not be hurt ; 
but Rosalind felt most for him. The friend- 
less state which he said he was in, and that he 
wished to die, made Rosalind think that he 
was, like herself, unfortunate ; and she pitied 
him so much, and so deep an interest she took 
in his danger while he was wrestling, that she 
might almost be said at that moment to have 
fallen in love with him. 

The kindness shown this unknown youth by 
these fair and noble ladies gave him courage 
and strength, so that he performed wonders ; 



sgS TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE, 

and in the end completely conquered his antag^ 
onist, who was so much hurt, that for a while 
he was unable to speak or move. 

The duke Frederick was much pleased with 
he • courage and skill shown by this young 
itranger ; and desired to know his name and 
parentage, meaning to take him under his pro- 
;.ection. 

The stranger said his name was Orlando, and 
that he was the youngest son of Sir Rowland 
de Boys. 

Sir Rowland de Boys, the father of Orlando, 
had been dead some years ; but when he was 
living he had been a true subject and dear friend 
of the banished duke: therefore when Frederick 
heard Orlando was the son of his banished 
brother's friend, all his liking for this brave 
young man was changed into displeasure, and 
he left the place in very ill humor. Hating 
to hear the very name of any of his brother's 
friends, and yet still admiring the valor of the 
youth, he said, as he went out, that he wished 
Orlando had been the son of any other man. 

Rosalind was delighted to hear that her new 
favorite was the son of her father's old friend ; 
andshesaid toCelia, "My father loved Sir Row- 
land de Boys, and if I had known this young 
man was his son, I would have added tears to 
my entreaties before he should have ventured." 

The ladies then went up to him ; and seeing 
him abashed by the sudden displeasure shown 
by the duke, they spoke kind and encouraging 
?ifords to him ; and Rosalind, when they 



AS YOV LIKE IT. f^g 

were going away, turned back to speak some 
more civil things to the brave young son of 
her father's old friend; and taking a chain 
from off her neck, she said, " Gentleman, wear 
this for me. I am out of suits with fortune, 
or I would give you a more valuable present." 

When the ladies were alone, RosaUnd's talk 
being still of Orlando, Celia began to perceive 
her cousin had fallen in love with the handsome 
young wrestler, and she said to Rosalind, " Is 
It possible you should fall in love so suddenly ? " 
Rosalind replied, "The duke, my father, loved 
his father dearly." " But," said Celia, " does 
it therefore follow that you should love his son 
dearly ? for then I ought to hate him, for my 
father hated his father ; yet I do not hate 
Orlando." 

Frederick being enraged at the sight of 
sir Rowland de Boys' son, which reminded 
him of the many friends the banished duke had 
among the nobility, and having been for some 
f.ime displeased with his niece, because the 
people praised her for her virtues and pitied her 
for her good father's sake, his mal'ce suddenly 
broke out against her ; and while Celia and 
Rosalind were talking of Orlando, Frederick 
entered the room, and with looks full of angei 
ordered Rosalind instantly to leave the palace, 
and follow her father into banishment , telling 
Celia, who in vain pleaded for her, thit he had 
only suffered Rosalind to stay upon her »,c- 
count. '* I did not then," said Celia, " entieat 
vou to let her stay : for I was too young a* 



200 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE, 

that time to value her ; but now that I know 
her worth, and that we so long have slept to 
gether, rose at the same instant, learned, 
played, and eat together, I cannot live out of 
her company." Frederick replied, " She is too 
subtle for you ; her smoothness, her very 
silence, and her patience, speak to the people, 
and they pity her. You are a fool to plead for 
ber, for you will seem more bright and virtuous 
ivhen she is gone ; therefore open not your lips 
in her favor, for the doom which I have passed 
upon her is irrevocable." 

When Celia found she could not prevail upon 
her father to let Rosalind remain with her, she 
generously resolved to accompany her ; and, 
leaving her father's palace that night, she went 
along with her friend to seek Rosalind's father, 
the banished duke, in the forest of Arden. 

Before they set out, Celia considered that 
it would be unsafe for two young ladies to 
travel in the rich clothes they then wore : she 
therefore proposed that they should disguise 
their rank by dressing themselves like country 
maids. Rosalind said it would be a still greater 
protection if one of them was to be dressed 
like a man ; and so it was quickly agreed on 
between them, that as Rosalind was tha 
tallest, she should wear the dress of a young 
countryman, and Celia should be habite,d 
like a country lass, and that they should say 
they were brother and sister, and Rosalind 
said she would be called Ganimed, and Celia 
chose the name of Aliena. 



AS you LIKE IT. 20* 

[n this disguise, and taking their money 
ar«d jewels to defray their expenses, these fair 
princesses set out on their long travel ; for the 
forest of Arden was a long way off, beyond 
the boundaries of the duke's dominions. 

The lady Rosalind (or Ganimed as she 
mast now be called) with her manly garb 
seemed to have put on a manly courage. The 
faithful friendship Celia had shown in accom- 
panying Rosalind so many weary miles made 
the new brother, in recompense for this true 
love, exert a cheerful spirit, as if he were 
indeed Ganimed, the rustic and stout-hearted 
brother of the gentle village maiden, Aliena. 

When at last they came to the forest of 
Arden, they no longer found the convenient 
inns and good accommodations they had met 
with on the road ; and being in want of food 
and rest, Ganimed, who had so merrily cheered 
his sister with pleasant speeches and happy 
remarks all the . way, now owned to Aliena 
that he was so weary, he could find in his 
heart to disgrace his man's apparel, and cry 
like a woman ; and Aliena declared she could 
go no farther ; and then again Ganimed tried 
to recollect that it was a man's duty to comfort 
and console a woman, as the weaker vessel : 
and to seem courageous to his new sister, he 
said, " Come, have a good heart, my sister 
Aliena ; we are now at the end of our travel, 
in the forest of Arden." But feigned manli- 
ness and forced courage would no longer sup« 
port them ; for though they were in the forest 



202 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARh.. 

of Arden, they knew not where to find the 
duke : and here the travel of these weary ladies 
might have come to a sad conclusion, for 
they might have lost themselves, and have 
perished for want of food ; but, providentially, 
as they were sitting on the grass, almost dying 
with fatigue and hopeless of any relief, a 
countryman chanced to pass that way, and 
Ganimed once more tried to speak with a 
manly boldness, saying, " Shepherd, if love or 
gold can in this desert place procure us enter- 
tainment, I pray you bring us where we may 
rest ourselves ; for this young maid, my sister, 
is much fatigued with traveling, and faints 
for want of food." 

The man replied, that he was only servant 
to a shepherd, and that his master's house was 
just going to be sold, and therefore they would 
find but poor entertainment ; but that if they 
would go with him, they should be welcome 
to what there was. They followed the man, 
the near prospect of relief giving them fresh 
strength ; and bought the house and sheep 
of the shepherd, and took the man who con- 
ducted them to the shepherd's house, to wait 
on them ; and being by this means so fortu- 
nately provided with a neat cottage, and well 
supplied with provisions, they agreed to stay 
here till they could learn in what part of the 
forest the duke dwelt. 

When they were rested after the fatigue of 
their journey, they began to like their new 
way of life, and almost fancied themselves the 



AS you LIKE 17. 203 

shepherd and shepherdess they feigned to be ~, 
yet sometimes Ganimed remembered he had 
once been the same lady Rosalind who had so 
dearly loved the brave Orlando, because he was 
the son of old Sir Rowland, her father's friend •, 
and though Ganimed though that Orlando 
was many miles distant, even so many weary 
miles as they had traveled, yet it soon ap- 
peared that Orlando was also in the forest of 
Arden : and in this manner this strange event 
came to pass. 

Orlando was the youngest son of Sir Rowland 
de Boys, who, when he died, left him (Orlando 
being then very young) to the care of his eldest 
brother Oliver, charging Oliver, on his bless- 
ing, to give his brother a good education, and 
provide for him as became the dignity of their 
ancient house. Oliver proved an unworthy 
brother ; and disregarding the commands of 
his dying father, he never put his brother to 
school, but kept him at home untaught and 
entirely neglected. But in his nature and in 
the noble qualities of his mind Orlando so 
much resembled his excellent father, that 
without any advantages of education he 
seemed like a youth who had been bred with 
the utmost care ; and Oliver so envied the fine 
person and dignified manners of his untutored 
brother, that at last he wished to destroy him ; 
and to effect this he set on people to persuade 
him to wrestle with the famous wrestler who, 
as has been before related, had killed so many 
men. Now it was this cruel brother's neglect 



204 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

of him which made Orlando say he wished to 
die, being so friendless. 

When, contrary to the wicked hopes he had 
formed, his brother proved victorious, his 
envy and malice knew no bounds, and he 
swore he would burn the chamber where 
Orlando slept. He was overheard making 
this vow by one that had been an old and 
faithful servant to their father, and that loved 
Orlando because he resembled Sir Rowland. 
This old man went out to meet him when he 
returned from the duke's palace, and when he 
saw Orlando, the peril his. dear young master 
was in made him break out into these passion- 
ate exclamations : " O my gentle master, 
my sweet master, O you memory of old 
Sir Rowland ! why are you virtuous ? why 
are you gentle, strong, and valiant ? and 
why would you be so fond to overcome the 
famous wrestler ? Your phrase is come too 
swiftly home before you." Orlando, wondering 
what all this meant, asked him what was the 
matter. And then the old man told him how 
his wicked brother, envying the love all people 
bore him, and now hearing the fame he had 
gained by his victory in the duke's palace, 
intended to destroy him by setting fire to his 
chamber that night ; and in conclusion, advised 
him to escape the danger he was in by instant 
flight : and knowing Orlando had no money, 
Adam (for that was the good old man's name) 
had brought out with him his own little hoard, 
and he said, " I have five hundred crowns, the 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 205 

thrifty hire I saved under your father, and 
laid by to be provision for me when my old 
limbs should become unfit for service ; take 
that, and He that doth the ravens feed be 
comfort to my age ! Here is the gold ; all 
this I give to you : let me be your servant ; 
though I look old, I will do the service of a 
younger man in all your business and neces- 
sities. "O good old man!" said Orlando, 
"how well appears in you the constant service 
of the old world ! You are not for the fashion 
of these times. We will go along together, 
and before your youthful wages are spent I 
shall light upon some means for both our 
maintenance." 

Together then this faithful servant and his 
loved master set out ; and Orlando and Adam 
traveled on, uncertain what course to pursue, 
till they came to the forest of Arden, and there 
they found themselves in the same distress for 
want of food that Ganimed and Aliena had 
been. They wandered on, seeking some 
human habitation, till they were almost spent 
with hunger and fatigue, Adam at last said, 
■' O my dear master, I die for want of food — I 
can go no farther ! " He then laid himself 
down, thinking to make that place his grave, 
and bade his dear master farewell. Orlando, 
seeing him in this weak state, took his old 
servant up in his arms, and carried him under 
the shelter of some pleasant trees ; and he 
said to him, " Cheerly, old Adam, rest your 
weary limbs here a while, and do not talk of 
dying I " 



2o6 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Orlando then searched about to find some 
food, and he happened to arrive at that part 
of the forest where the duke was ; and he and 
his friends were just going to eat their dinner, 
this royal duke being seated on the grass, 
under no other canopy than the shady cover 
of some large trees. 

Orlando, whom hunger had made desperate, 
drew his sword, intending to take their meat 
by force, and said, " Forbear, and eat no more ; 
T must have your food ! " The duke asked 
him if distress had made him so bold, or if he 
were a rude despiser of good manners ? On 
this Orlando said he was dying with hunger ; 
and then the duke told him he was welcome 
to sit down and eat with them. Orlando, 
bearing him speak so gently, put up his sword, 
and blushed with shame at the rude manner 
in which he had demanded their food. 
*' Pardon me, I pray you," said he : " I thought 
that all things had been savage here, and 
therefore I put on the countenance of stern 
command; but whatever men you are, that in 
this desert, under the shade of melancholy 
boughs, lose and neglect the creeping hours of 
time : if ever you have looked on better days ; 
if ever you have been where bells have knolled 
to church ; if you have ever sat at any good 
man's feast ; if ever from your eyelids you 
have wiped a tear, and know what it is to pity 
or be pitied, may gentle speeches now move 
you to do me human courtesy!" The duke 
replied, " True it is that we are men (as yo' 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 20f 

say) who have seen better days, and though 
we have now our habitation in this wild forest, 
we have Uved in towns and cities, and have 
with holy bell been knolled to church, have 
sat at good men's feasts, and from our eyes 
have wiped the drops which sacred pity has 
engendered : therefore sit ye down, and take 
of our refreshment as much as will minister to 
your wants." " There is an old poor man," 
answered Orlando, " who has limped after me 
many a weary step in pure love, oppressed at 
once with two sad infirmities, age and hunger ; 
till he be satisfied, I must not touch a bit." 
" Go, find him out, and bring him hither," said 
the duke ; " we will forbear to eat till you 
return." Then Orlando went like a doe to 
find its fawn and give it food; and presently 
returned, bringing Adam in his arms ; and the 
duke said, " Set down your venerable burthen ; 
you are both welcome :" and they fed the old 
man and cheered his heart, and he revived, 
and recovered his health and strength again. 

The duke inquired who Orlando was : and 
when he found that he was the son of his old 
friend. Sir Rowland de Boys, he took him under 
his protection, and Orlando and his old servant 
Mved with the duke in the forest. 

Orlandw arrived in the forest not many days 
after Ganimed and Aliena came there, and (as 
has been before related) bought the shepherd's 
cottage. 

Ganimed and Aliena were strangely surprised 
to find the name of Rosalind carved on the 



2oS TALES FROM SLcAKSPEARE. 

trees, and love-sonnets fastened to them, all 
addressed to Rosalind : and while they were 
wondering how this could be, they met Orlando, 
and they perceived the chain which Rosalind 
had given him about his neck. 

Orlando little thought that Ganimed was the 
fair princess Rosalind, who, by her noble con- 
descension and favor, had so won his heart 
that he passed his whole time in carving her 
name upon the trees, and writing sonnets in 
praise of her beauty : but being much pleased 
with the graceful air of this pretty shepherd- 
youth, he entered into conversation with him, 
and he thought he saw a likeness in Ganimed 
to his beloved Rosalind, but that he had none 
of the dignified deportment of that noble lady ; 
for Ganimed assumed the forward manners 
often seen in youths when they are between 
boys and men, and with much archness and 
humor talked to Orlando of a certain lover, 
"who," said he, "haunts our forest, and spoils 
our young trees with carving Rosalind upon 
their barks ; and he hangs odes upon hawthorns, 
and elegies on brambles, all praising this same 
Rosalind. If I could find this lover, I would 
give him some good counsel that would soon 
cure him of his love." 

Orlando confessed that he was the fond 
lover of whom he spoke, and asked Ganimed 
to give him the good counsel he talked of. 
The remedy Ganimed proposed, and the 
counsel he gave him, was that Orlando should 
come every day to the cottage where he and 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 209 

his sister Aliena dwelt. " And then," said 
Ganimed, " I will feign myself to be Rosalind, 
and you shall feign to court me in the same 
manner as you would do if I were Rosalind, and 
then I will imitate the fantastic ways of whim- 
sical ladies to their lovers, till I make you 
ashamed of your love ; and this is the way I 
propose to cure you." Orlando had no great 
faith in the remedy, yet he agreed to come 
every day to Ganimed's cottage, and feign 
a playful courtship ; and every day Orlando 
visited Ganimed and Aliena, and Orlando 
called the shepherd Ganimed his Rosalind, and 
every day talked over all the fine words and 
flattering compliments which young men de- 
light to use when they court their mistresses. 
It does not appear, however, that Ganimed 
made any progress in curing Orlando of his 
love for Rosalind. 

Though Orlando thought all this was but' a 
sportive play (not dreaming that Ganimed was 
his very Rosalind), yet the opportunity it gave 
him of saying all the fond things he had in his 
heart, pleased his fancy almost as well as it 
did Ganimed's, who enjoyed the secret jest in 
knowing these fine love-speeches were all 
addressed to the right person. 

In this manner many days passed pleasantly 
on with these young people ; . and the good- 
natured Aliena, seeing it made Ganimed happy, 
let him have his own way, and was diverted at 
the mock courtship, and did not care to remind 
Ganimed that the lady Rosalind had not yet 
14 



2IO TALEF FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

made herself known to the duke her father, 
whose place of resort in the forest they had 
learnt from Orlando. Ganimed met the duke 
one day, and had some talk with him, and the 
duke asked of what parentage he came. Gani- 
med answered that he came of as good a paren- 
tage as he did ; which made the duke smile, for 
he did not suspect the pretty shepherd-boy 
came of royal lineage. Then seeing the duke 
look well and happy, Ganimed was content to 
put off all further explanation for a few days 
longer. 

One morning, as Orlando was going to visit 
Ganimed, he saw a man lying asleep on the 
ground, and a large green snake had twisted 
itself about his neck. The snake, seeing Or- 
lando approach, glided away among the bushes. 
Orlando went nearer, and then he discovered 
a lioness lie couching, with her head on the. 
ground, with a cat-like watch, waiting till the 
sleeping man awaked (for it is said that lions 
will prey on nothing that is dead or sleeping). 
It seemed as if Orlando was sent by Provi- 
dence to free the man from the danger of the 
snake and lioness : but when Orlando looked 
in the man's face he perceived that the sleeper, 
who was exposed to this double peril, was his 
own brother Oliver, who had so cruelly used 
him, and had threatened to destroy him by fire ; 
and he was almost tempted to leave him a prey 
to the hungry lioness : but brotherly affection 
and the gentleness of his nature soon over- 
came his first anger against his brother : and 



he drew his sword, and attacked the lioness 
and slew her, and thus preserved his broth- 
er's life both from the venomous snake and 
from the furious lioness; but before Orlando 
could conquer the lioness, she had torn one 
of his arms with her sharp claws. 

While Orlando was engaged with the lioness 
Oliver awaked, and perceiving that his brother 
Orlando, whom he had so cruelly treated, was 
saving him from the fury of a wild beast at the 
risk of his own life, shame and remorse at once 
seized him, and he repented of his unworthy 
conduct, and besought with many tears his 
brother's pardon for the injuries he had done 
him. Orlando rejoiced to see him so penitent, 
and readily forgave him : and they embraced 
each other ; and from that hour Oliver loved 
Orlando with a true brotherly affection, thougl'^ 
he had come to the forest bent on his destruo 
tion. 

The wound in Orlando's arm having bled very 
much, he found himself too weak to go to visit 
Ganimed, and therefore he desired his brother 
to go and tell Ganimed, " whom," said Orlando, 
*' I in sport do call my Rosalind," the accident 
which had befallen him. 

Thither then Oliver went, and told to Gani- 
ined and Aliena how Orlando had saved his 
life : and when he had finished the story of 
Orlando's bravery, and his own providential 
escape, he owned to them that he was Orlando's 
brother who had so cruelly used him ; and then 
he told them of their reconciliation. 



212 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

The sincere sorrow that Oliver expressed 
for his offenses made such a Uvely impression 
on the kind heart of Aliena, that she instantly 
fell in love with him ; and Oliver observing 
how much she pitied the distress he told her 
he felt for his fault, he as suddenly fell in love 
with her. But while love was thus stealing 
into the hearts of Aliena and Oliver, he was 
no less busy with Ganimed, who hearing of 
the danger Orlando had been in, and that he 
was wounded by the lioness, fainted : and when 
he recovered, he pretended he had counter- 
feited the swoon in the imaginary character of 
Rosalind, and Ganimed said to Oliver, " Tell 
your brother Orlando how well I counterfeited 
a swoon," But Oliver saw by the paleness of 
his complexion that he did really faint, and 
much wondering at the weakness of the young 
man, he said, " Well, if you did counterfeit, 
take a good heart and counterfeit to be a man." 
" So I do," replied Ganimed, truly, " but I 
should have been a woman by right." 

Oliver made this visit a very long one, and 
when at last he returned back to his brother, 
he had much news to tell him ; for besides the 
account of Ganimed's fainting at the hearing 
that Orlando was wounded, Oliver told him i 
how he had fallen in love with the fair shep- / 
herdess Aliena, and that she had lent a favor- 
able ear to his suit, even in this their first 
interview; and he talked to his brother, as of 
a thing almost settled, that he should marry 
Aliena, saying that he so well loved her, that 



AS YOU LIKE n. 213 

iie would live here as a shepherd, and settle 
his estate and house at home upon Orlando. 

"You have my consent," said Orlando. 
" Let your wedding be to-morrow, and I will 
invite the duke and his friend^. Go and per- 
suade your shepherdess to agree to this : she is 
now alone ; for look, here comes her brother." 
Oliver went to Aliena ; and Ganimed, whom 
Orlando had seen approaching, came to inquire 
after the health of his wounded friend. 

When Orlando and Ganimed began to talk 
over the sudden love which had taken place 
between Oliver and Aliena, Orlando said he 
had advised his brother to persuade his fair 
shepherdess to be married on the morrow, and 
then he added how much he could wish to be 
married on the same day to his Rosalind. 

Ganimed, who well approved of this arrange- 
ment, said that if Orlando really loved Rosa- 
lind as well as he professed to do, he should 
have his wish : for on the morrow he would 
engage to make Rosalind appear in her own 
person, and alco that Rosalind should be will- 
ing to marry Orlando. 

This seemingly wonderful event, which, as 
Ganimed was the lady Rosalind, he could so 
easily perform, he pretended he would bring- 
to pass by the aid of magic, which he said he 
had learnt of an uncle who was a famous 
magician. 

The fond lover Orlando, half believing and 
half doubting what he heard, asked Ganimed 
if he spoke in sober meaning. " By my life I 



2 1 4 TALES FROM SHAKSPEA RE 

do," said Ganimed ; " therefore put on your 
best clothes, and bid the duke and your friend? 
to your wedding ; for if you desire to be mar 
ried to-morrow to RosaUnd she shall be here." 

The next morning, Oliver having obtained 
the consent of Aliena, they came into the pres- 
ence of the duke, and with them also came 
Orlando. 

They being all assembled to celebrate this 
double marriage, and as yet only one of the 
brides appearing, there was much of wonder- 
ing and conjecture, but they mostly thought 
that Ganimed was making a jest of Orlando. 

The Duke, hearing it was his own daughter 
that w^as to be brought in this strange way, 
asked Orlando if he believed the shepherd-boy 
could really do what he had promised ; and 
while Orlando was answering that he knew 
not what to think, Ganimed entered and asked 
the duke, if he brought his daughter, whether 
he would consent to her marriage with Orlando. 
"That I would," said the duke, "if I had king- 
doms to give with her. Ganimed then said to 
Orlando, " And you say you will marry her if I 
bring her here .'' " That I would, said Orlando, 
" if I were king of many kingdoms." 

Ganimed and Aliena then went out together, 
and Ganimed throwing off his male attire, and 
being once more dressed in woman's apparel, 
quickly became Rosalind without the power of 
magic; and Aliena, changing her country garb 
for her own rich clothes, was with as little 
trouble transformed into the lady Celia. 



AS YOU LIKE J T. 215 

While they were gone, the duke said to 
Orlando, that he thought the shepherd Gani- 
med very like his daughter Rosalind ; and 
Orlando said, he also had observed the resem- 
blance. 

They had no time to wonder how all this 
would end, for Rosalind and Celia in their own 
clothes entered ; and no longer pretending that 
it was by the power of magic that she came 
there, Rosalind threw herself on her knees be- 
fore her father, and begged his blessing. It 
seemed so wonderful to all present that she 
should so suddenly appear, that it might well 
have passed for magic : but Rosalind would 
no longer trifle with her father, and told him 
the story of her banishment, and of her dwell- 
ing in the forest as a shepherd-boy, her cousin 
Celia passing as her sister. 

The duke ratified the consent he had already 
given to the marriage ; and Orlando and Rosa- 
lind, Oliver and Celia, were married at the 
;^ame time. And though their wedding could 
not be celebrated in this wild forest with any 
of the parade or splendor usual on such occa- 
sions, yet a happier wedding-day was never 
passed : and while they were eating their veni- 
son under the cool shade of the trees, as if 
nothing should be wanting to complete the 
felicity of this good duke and the true lovers, 
an unexpected messenger arrived to tell the 
duke the joyful news, that his dukedom was 
reslored to him. 

The usurper, enraged at the flight of his 



2 16 TALE ? FROM SIJAKSFEARE. 

daughter Celia, and hearing that every day 
men of great worth resorted to the forest of 
Arden to join the lawful duke in his exile, 
much envying that his brother should be so 
highly respected in his adversity, put himself 
at the head of a large force, and advanced to 
the forest, intending to seize his brother, and 
put him, with all his faithful followers, to the 
sword ; but by a wonderful interposition of 
Providence, this bad brother was converted 
from his evil intention : for just as he entered 
the skirts of the wild forest, he was met by an 
old religious man, a hermit, with whom he had 
much talk, and who in the end completely 
turned his heart from his wicked design. 
Thenceforward he became a true penitent, 
and resolved, relinquishing his unjust domin- 
ion, to spend the remainder of his days in a 
religious house. The first act of his newly- 
conceived penitence was to send a messenger 
to his brother (as has been related), to offer to 
restore to him his dukedom, which he had 
usurped so long, and with it the lands and 
revenues of his friends, the faithful followers 
of his adversity. 

This joyful news, as unexpected as it was 
welcome, came opportunely to heighten the 
festivity and rejoicings at the wedding of the 
princesses. Celia complimented her cousin 
on this good fortune which had happened to 
the duke, Rosalind's father, and wished her 
joy very sincerely, though she herself was no 
longer heir to the dukedom, but by this resto- 



no Yua 1.1 iCK ii: 21 J 

.auon which her father had made, Rosaiind 
was now the heir : so completely was the love 
of these two cousins unmixed with anything 
of jealousy or envy. 

The duke had now an opportunity of reward- 
ing those true friends who had stayed with 
him in his banishment ; and these worthy fol- 
lowers, though they had patiently shared his 
adverse fortune, were very well pleased to 
return in peace and prosperity to the palace 
of their lawful duke. 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, 

There lived at the palace at Messina twc 
kdies whose names were Hero and BeatricCc 
Hero was the daughter, and Beatrice the niece, 
oi Leonato, the governor of Messina. 

Beatrice was of a lively temper, and loved 
to divert her cousin Hero, who was of a more 
serious d'sposition, with her sprightly sallies. 
Whatever was going forward was sure to make 
matter of mirth for the light-hearted Beatrice. 

At the time the history of these ladies com- 
mences, some young men of high rank in the 
army, as they were passing through Messina 
on their return from a war that was just ended, 
in v/hich they had distinguished themselves 
by their great bravery, came to visit Leonato. 
Among these were Don Pedro, the prince of 
Arragon, and his friend Claudio, who was a 
lord of Florence ; and with them came the 
wild and witty Benedick, and he was a lord of 
Padu-a. 

These strangers had been at Messina before, 
and the hospitable governor introduced them 



6 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

to his daughter and his niece as their old 
friends and acquaintance. 

Benedick, the moment he entered the room, 
began a lively conversation with Leonato and 
the prince. Beatrice, who liked not to be left 
out of any discourse, interrupted tent dick 
with saying, " I wonder that you will still be 
talking, signior Benedick; nobody marks you." 
Benedick was just such another rattle-brain as 
Beatrice, yet he was not pleased at this free 
salutation : he thought it did not become a 
v./ell-bred lady to be so flippant with her tongue ; 
and he remembered, when he was last at Mes- 
sian, that Beatrice used to select him to make 
her merry jests upon. And as there is no one 
who so little likes to be made a jest of as 
those who are apt to take the same liberty 
themselves, so it was with Benedick and Bea- 
trice; these two" sharp wits never met in for* 
mer times, but a perfect war of raillery was kept 
up between them, and they always parted mu- 
tually displeased with each other. Therefore 
when Beatrice stopped him in the middle of 
bis discourse with telling him nobody marked 
what lie was saying, Benedick, affecting not to 
have observed before that she was present, 
said, "What, my dear lady Disdain, are 5'ou 
yet living ? " And now war broke out afresh 
between them, and a long jangling argument 
ensued, during which Beatrice, although she 
knew he had so well approved his valor in the 
late war, said that she would eat all he -had 
killed there : and observing the prince take 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 7 

deligbt in Benedick's conversation, she called 
him " the prince's jester." This sarcasm sank 
deeper into the mind of Benedick than all 
Beatrice had said before. The hint she gave 
him tliat he was a coward, by saying she 
would eat all he had killed, he did not regard, 
knowing himself to be a brave man : but there 
is nothing that great wits so much dread as 
the imputation of buffoonery, because the 
charge comes sometimes a little too near the 
truth : therefore Benedick perfectly hated 
Beatrice when she called him "the prince's 
jester." 

The modest lady Hero was silent before the 
noble guests ; and while Claudio was atten- 
tively observing the improvements which time 
had made in her beauty, and was contemplat- 
ing the exquisite graces of her fine figure (for 
she was an admirable young lady), the prince 
was highly amused with listening to the humor- 
ous dialogue between Benedick and Beatrice ; 
and he said in a whisper to Leonato, "This is 
a pleasant spirited young lady. She were an 
excellent wife for Benedick." Leonato replied 
to this suggestion, " O my lord, my lord, if 
they were but^a week married, they would talk 
themselves mad." But though Leonato thought 
they would make a discordant pair, the prince 
did not give up the idea of matching these 
two keen wits together. 

When the prince returned with Claudio from 
the palace, he found that the marriage he had 
devised between Benedick and Beatrice was 



8 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

not the only one projected in that good com- 
pany, tor Claudio spoke in such terms of Hero, 
as made tlie prince guess at what was passing 
in his heart ; and he liked it well, and he said 
to Claudio, " Do you affect Hero ? " To this 
question Claudio replied, " O my lord, when I 
was last at Messina, I looked upon her with 
a soldier's eye, that liked, but had no leisure 
for loving ; but now, in this happy time of 
peace, thoughts of war have left their places 
vacant in my mind, and in their room come 
thronging soft and delicate thoughts, a)! 
prompting me how fair young Hero is, remind- 
ing me that I liked her before I went to the 
wars." Claudio's confession of his love for 
Hero so wrought upon the prince, that he lost 
no time in soliciting the consent of Leonato to 
accept of Claudio for a son-in-law. Leonato 
agreed to this proposal, and the prince found 
no great difficulty in persuading the gentle 
Hero herself to listen to the suit of the noble 
Claudio, who was a lord of rare endowments, 
and highly accomplished ; and Claudio, assisted 
by his kind prince, soon prevailed upon Leo- 
nato to fix an early day for the celebration of 
his marriage with Hero. 

Claudio was to wait but a few days before 
he was to be married to his fair lady; yet he 
complained of the interval being tedious, as 
indeed most young men are impatient, when 
they are waiting for the accomplishment of any 
event they have set their hearts upon : the 
princf'; therefore," to make the time seem short 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 9 

to him, proposed, as a kind of merry pastime, 
that they should invent some artful scheme to 
make Benedick and Beatrice fall in love with 
each other. Claudio entered with great satis- 
faction into this whim of the prince, and Leo- 
nato promised them his assistance, and even 
Hero said she would do any modest office to 
help her cousin to a good husband. 

The device the prince invented was, that 
the gentlemen should make Benedick believe 
that Beatrice was in love with him, and that 
Hero should make Beatrice believe that Ben- 
edick was in love with her. 

The prince, Leonato, and Claudio began 
their operations first ; and, watching an op- 
portunity when Benedick was quietly seated 
reading in an arbor, the prince and his assist- 
ants took their station among the trees behind 
the arbor, so near that Benedick could not 
choose but hear all they said ; and after some 
careless talk, the prince said, " Come hither, 
Leonato. What was it you told me the other 
day — that your niece Beatrice was in love with 
signior Benedick ? I did never think that lady 
would have loved any man." " No, nor I 
neither, my lord," answered Leonato. " It is 
most wonderful that she should so dote on 
Benedick, whom she in all outward behavior 
seemed ever to dislike." Claudio confirmed 
all this, with saying that Hero had told him 
Beatrice was so in love with Benedick, that 
she would certainly die of grief, if he could 
not be brought to love her ; which Leonato 



lo TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

and Claudio seemed to agree was impossible 
he having always been such a railer against all 
fair ladies, and in particular against Beatrice. 

The prince affected to hearken to all this 
with great compassion for Beatrice, and he 
said, " It were good that Benedick were told 
of this." " To what end ? " said Claudio ; " he 
would but make sport of it, and torment the 
poor lady worse." " And if he should," said 
the prince, " it were a good deed to hang him ; 
for Beatrice is an excellent sweet lady, and 
exceeding wise in everything but in loving 
Benedick." Then the prince motioned to his 
companions that they should walk on, and 
leave Benedick to meditate upon what he had 
overheard. 

Benedick had been listening with great 
eagerness to this conversation ; and he said to 
himself when he heard Beatrice loved him, " Iji 
it possible? Sits the wind in that corner ? '' 
And when they were Z'^^^i ^^ began to reason, 
in this manner with himself. " This can ba 
no trick! they were very serious, and they 
have the truth from Hero, and seem to pity the 
lady. Love me ! Why, it must be requited ! 
I did never think to marry. But when I said 
I should die a bachelor, I did not think I 
should live to be married. They say the lady 
is virtuous and fair. She is so. And wise in 
everything but in loving me. Why, that is 
no great argument of her folly. But here comes 
Beatrice. By this day, she is a fair lady. I 
do spy some marks of love in her." Beatrice 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, t\ 

now approached him, and said with her usual 
tartness, " Against my will I am sent to 
bid you come in to dinner." Benedick, who 
never felt himself disposed to speak so politely 
to her before, replied, " Fair Beatrice, I thank 
you for your pains.: " and when Beatrice, after 
two or three more rude speeches, left him, 
Benedick thought he observed a concealed 
meaning of kindness, under the uncivil words 
she uttered, and he said aloud, " If I do not 
take pity on her, I am a villain. If I do not 
love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her pict- 
ure." 

The gentleman being thus caught in the net 
they had spread for him, it was now Hero's 
turn to play her part with Beatrice ; and for 
this purpose she sent for Ursula and Margaret, 
two gentlewomen who attended upon her, and 
she said to Margaret, " Good Margaret, run to 
the parlor ; there you will find my cousin Bea- 
trice talking with the prince and Claudio. 
Whisper in her ear, that I and^ Ursula are 
walking in the orchard, and that our discourse 
is all of her. Bid her steal into that pleasant 
arbor, where honeysuckles, ripened by the 
sun, like ungrateful minions, forbid the sun to 
enter." This arbor, into which Hero desired 
Margaret to entice Beatrice, was the very same 
pleasant arbor where Benedick had so lately 
been an attentive listener. " I will make her 
come, I warrant, presently," said Margaret. 

Hero, then taking Ursula with her into the 
orchard, said to her, " Now. Ursula, when 



12 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Beatrice comes, we will walk up and down this 
alley, and our talk must be only of Benedick, 
and when I name him, let it be your part to 
praise him more than ever man did merit. 
My talk to you must be how Benedick is in 
love with Beatrice. Now begin ; for look 
where Beatrice like a lapwing runs close by the 
ground, to hear our conference." They then 
began ; Hero saying, as if in answer to some- 
thing which Ursula had said, " No, truly, 
Ursula. She is too disdainful ; her spirits are 
as coy as wild birds of the rock." " But are 
you sure," said Ursula, " that Benedick loves 
Beatrice so entirely ? " Hero replied, " Sosays 
the prince, and my lord Claudio, and they en- 
treated me to acquaint her with it ; but I per- 
suaded them, if they loved Benedick, never to 
let Beatrice know of it." " Certainly," replied 
Ursula, " it were not good she knew his love, 
lest she made sport of it." " Why, to say 
truth," said Hero, " I never yet saw a man, 
how wise soever, or noble, young or rarely 
featured, but she would dispraise him." " Sure 
sure, such carping is not commendable," said 
Ursula. " No," repUed'Hero, " but who dare 
tell her so ? if I should speak, she would mock 
me into air." " O you wrong your cousin," 
said Ursula : " she cannot be so much without 
true judgment as to refuse so rare a gentleman 
assignor Benedick." "He hath an excellent 
good name," said Hero: " indeed he is the 
first man in Italy, always excepting my deal 
Claudio." And now, Hero giving her attend 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 13 

ant a hint that it was time to change the dis- 
course, Ursula said, " And when are you to be 
married, madam ? " Hero then told her, that 
she was to be married to Claudio the next day, 
and desired she would go in with her, and 
look at some new attire, as she wished 
to consult with her on what she would wear on 
the morrow. Beatrice, who had been listening 
with breathless eagerness to this dialogue, 
when they went away, exclaimed, " What fire 
is in my ears ? Can this be true ? Farewell, 
contempt and scorn, and maiden pride, adieu ! 
Benedick, love on ; I will requite you, taming 
my wild heart to your loving hand." 

It must have been a pleasant sight to see 
these old enemies converted into new and lov- 
ing friends ; and to behold their first meeting 
after being cheated into mutual liking by the 
merry artifice of the good-humored prince. 
But a sad reverse in the fortunes of Hero 
/nust now be thought of. The morrow, which 
was to have been her wedding-day, brought 
sorrow on the heart of Hero and her good 
father, Leonato. 

The prince had a half-brother, who came 
from the wars along with him to Messina. 
This brother (his name was Don John) was a 
melancholy, discontented man whose spirit 
seemed to labor in the contriving of villainies. 
He hated the prince his brother, and he hated 
Claudio, because he was the prince's friend, 
and determined to prevent Claudio's marriage 
with Hero, only for the malicious pleasure of 



X4 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE, 

making Claudio and the prince unhappy ; fol 
he knew the prince had set his heart upon 
this marriage, almost as much as Claudio him- 
self: and to effect this wicked purpose, he 
employed one Borachio, a man as bad as him- 
self, whom he encouraged with the offer of a 
great revv^ard. Thus Borachio paid his court 
to Margaret, Hero's attendant ; and Don John, 
knowing this, prevailed upon him to make 
Margaret promise to talk with him from her 
lady's chamber-window, that night, after Hero 
was asleep, and also to dress herself in Hero's 
clothes, the better to deceive Claudio into 
the belief that it was Hero, for that was the 
end he meant to compass by this wicked plot. 

Don John then went to the prince and 
Claudio, and told them that Hero was an 
imprudent lady, and that she talked with men 
from her chamber window at midnight. Now 
this was the evening before the wedding, and 
he offered to take them that night, where they 
should themselves hear Flero discoursing with 
a man from her window ; and .they consented 
to go along with him, and Claudio said, " If I 
see anything to-night why I should not marry 
her, to-morrow in the congregation, where I 
intended to wed her, there will I shame her." 
The prince also said, " And as I assisted yoi 
to obtain her, I will join with you to disgrace.- 
her." 

When Don John brought them near Hero's 
chamber that night, they saw Borachio stand- 
ing under the window, and they saw Margaret 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 13 

rooking out of Hero's window, and heard her 
talking with Borachio ; and Margaret being 
dressed in the same clothes they had seen 
Hero wear, the prince and Claudio believed 
it was the lady Hero herself. 

Nothing could equal the anger of Claudio, 
when he had made (as he thought) this 
discovery. All liis love for the innocent Hero 
was at once converted into hatred, and he 
resolved to expose her in the church, as he 
had said he would, the next day ; and the 
prince agreed to this, thinking no punishment 
could be too severe for the naughty lady, M'ho 
talked with a man from her window the very 
night before she was going to be married to 
the noble Claudio. 

The next day they were aVi met to celebrate 
-the marriage, and Claudio and Hero were 
standing before the priest, and the priest, or 
friar, as he was called, was proceeding to pro- 
nounce the marriage ceremon)^, when Claudio, 
in the most passionate language, proclaimed 
the guilt of the blameless Hero, who, amazed at 
the strange words he uttered, said meekly, 

"Is my lord well, that he does speak so 
wide 1 " 

Leonato in the utmost horror, said to the 
prince, 

" My lord, why speak not you ? " '' What 
should I speak ? " said the prince ; " I stand 
dishonored, that have gone about to link my 
dear friend to an unworthy woman. Leonato, 
upon my honor, myself, my brother, and this 



i6 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

grieved Claudio, did see and hear her last 
night at midnight talk with a man at her cham- 
ber-windovv'." 

Benedick, in astonishment at what he heard, 
said, " This looks not like a nuptial." 

" True, O God ! " replied the heart-struck 
Hero ; and then this hapless lady sank down 
in a fainting fit, to all appearance dead. The 
prince and Claudio left the church, without 
staying to see if Hero would recover, or at all 
regarding the distress into which they had 
thrown Leonato. So hard-hearted had their 
anger made them. 

Benedick remained, and assisted Beatrice 
to recover Hero from her swoon, saying, " How 
does the lady ? " " Dead I think," replied 
Beatrice in great agony, for she loved her cou- 
sin ; and knowing her virtuous principles, she 
believed nothing of what she had heard spoken 
against her. Not so the poor old father ; he 
believed the story of his child's shame, and it 
was piteous ^to hear him lamenting over her, 
as she lay like one dead before him, wishing 
she might never more open her eyes. 

But the ancient friar was a wise man, and 
full of observation on human nature, and he 
had attentively marked the lady's countenance 
when she heard herself accused, and noted a 
thousand blushing shames to start into her 
face, and then he saw an angel-like whiteness 
bear away those blushes, and in her eye he saw 
a fire that did belie the error that the prince 
did speak against her maiden truth, and he 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 17 

*,ai J to the sorrowing father, " Call me a fool ; 
trust not my reading, nor my observation ; trust 
not my age, my reverence, nor my calling ; if 
this sweet lady lie not guiltless here under 
some biting error." 

When Hero recovered from the swoon into 
which she had fallen, the friar said to her, 
"Lady, what man is he you are accused of? " 
Hero replied, " They know that do accuse me ; 
I know of none : " then tu^rning tb Leonato, 
she said, " O my father, if you can prove that 
any man has. ever conversed with me at hours 
unmeet, or that I yesternight changed words 
with any creature, refuse me, hate me, torture 
me to death." 

"There is," said the friar, "some strange 
misunderstanding in the prince and Claudio ; " 
and then he counseled Leoricito, that he should 
report that Hero was dead ; and he said, that, 
the death-like swoon in which they had left 
Hero, would make this easy of belief ; and he 
atso advised him, that he should put on mourn- 
ing, and erect a monument for her, and do all 
rites that appertain to a burial. " What will, 
this do ? " The friar replied, " This report of 
her death shall change slander into pity : that 
is some good ; but that is not all the good I 
hope for. When Claudio shall hear she died 
upon hearing his words, the idea of her life 
shall sweetly creep into his imagination. Then 
shall he mourn, if ever love had interest in his 
heart, and wish he had not so accused her: 
yea, though he thought his accusatiou truer." 



l8 '"^ TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE, 

Benedick now said, " Leonato, let the friar 
advise you ; and though you know how well I 
love the prince and Claudio, yet on my honor 
I will not reveal this secret to them." 

Leonato, thus persuaded, yielded ; and he 
said sorrowfully, " I am so grieved, that the 
smallest twine may lead me." The kind friar 
then xcd Leonato and Hero away to comfort 
and console them, and Beatrice and Benedick 
remained alone ; and this was the meeting from 
which their friends, who contrived the merry 
plot against them, expected so much diversion ; 
those friends who were now overwhelmed with 
affliction, and from whose minds all thoughts 
of merriment seemed forever banished. 

Benedick was the first who spoke, and he 
said, " Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this 
while ? " " Yea, and I will weep a while longer," 
said Beatrice. " Surely," said Benedick, " I 
do believe your fair cousin is wronged." 
" Ah ! " said Beatrice, " how much might that 
man deserve of me who would right her ! " 
Benedick then said, " Is there any way to show 
such friendship ? I do love nothing in the 
world so well as you : is not that strange ? " 
" It were as possible," said Beatrice, " for me 
to say I loved nothing in the word so well as 
you; but believe me not, and yet I lie not. I 
confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am 
sorry for my cousin." " By my sword," said 
Benedick, "you love me, and I protest I love 
you. Come, bid me do anything for you." 
" Kill Claudio/' said Beatrice. "Ha ! not for 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 19 

the wide world," said Benedick ; for he loved 
his friend Claudio, and he believed he had 
been imposed upon. " Is not Claudio a vil- 
lain, that has slandered, scorned, and dis- 
honored my cousin ? " said Beatrice : " O that 
I were a man ! " " Hear me, Beatrice ! " said 
Benedick. But Beatrice would hear nothing 
in Claudio's defense ; and she continued to 
urge on Benedick to revenge her cousin's 
wrongs : and she said, " Talk with a man out 
of the window ; a proper saying ! Sweet Hero ! 
she is wronged ; she is slandered ,■ she is 
undone. O that I were a man for Hero's 
sake ! or that I had any friend, who would be 
a man for my sake ! but valor is melted into 
courtesies and compliments. I cannot be a 
man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman 
with grieving." " Tarry, good Beatrice," said 
Benedick : " by this hand, I love you." " Use it 
for my love some other way than by swearing by 
it," said Beatrice. " Think you, on your soul, 
that Claudio has wronged Hero ? " asked Bene- 
dick. " Yea," answered Beatrice ; " as sure 
as I have a thought or a soul." " Enough," 
said Benedick ; " I am engaged ; I will chal- 
lenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so leave 
you. By this hand, Claudio shall render me a 
dear account ! As you hear from me, so think 
of me. Go comfort your cousin." 

While Beatrice was thus powerfully pleading 
with Benedick, and working his gallant temper 
by the spirit of her angry words to engage in 
the cause of Hero, and fight even with his dear 



20 TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE. 

friend Claudio, Leonato was challenging the 
prince and Claudio to answer with their swords 
the injury they had done his child, who, he af- 
firmed, had died for grief. But they respected 
his age< and his sorrow, and they said, " Na}^, 
do not quarrel with us, good old man." And 
now Cctme Benedick, and he also challenged 
Claudio to answer with his sword the injury he 
had done to Hero ; and Claudio and the prince 
said to each other, " Beatrice has set him on 
to do this." Claudio nevertheless must have 
accepted this challenge of Benedick, had not 
the justice of Heaven at that moment brought 
to pass a better proof of the innocence of Hero 
than the uncertain fortune of a duel. 

While the prince and Claudio were yet talk- 
ing of the challenge of Benedick, a magistrate 
brought Borachio as a prisoner before the 
prince. Borachio had been overheard talking 
with one of his companions of the mischief he 
had been employed by Don John to do. 

Borachio made a full confession to the prince 
in Claudio's hearing, that it was Margaret 
dressed in her laedy's clothes that he had talked 
with from the window, whom they had mis- 
taken for the lady Hero herself ; and no doubt 
continued on the minds of Claudio and the 
prince of the innocence of Hero. If a sus- 
picion had remained it must have been re- 
moved by the flight of Don John, who, finding 
his villainies were detected, fled from Messina 
to avoid the just anger of his brother. 

The heart of Claudio was sorely grieved 



' MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, 21 

«irhen .he found he had falsely accused Hero, 
who, he thought, died upon hearing his cruel 
words ; and the memory of his beloved Hero's 
image came over him, in the rare semblance 
that he loved at first ; and the prince asking 
him if what he heard did not run like iron 
through his soul, he answered, that he felt as 
if he had taken poison while Borachio was 
speaking, ^.^ 

And the repentant Claudio implored forgive- 
ness of the old man Leonato for the injury he 
had done his child ; and promised that what' 
ever penance Leonato would lay upon him for 
his fault in believing the false accusation 
against his betrothed wife, for her dear sake he 
would endure it. 

The penance Leonato enjoined him was, to 
ttiarry the next morning a cousin of Hero's 
who, he said, was now his heir, and in person 
very like Hero, Claudio, regarding the solemn 
promise he made to Leonato, said he would 
marry this unknown lady, even though she 
were an Ethiop : but his heart was very sor- 
rowful, and he passed that night in tears, and 
in remorseful grief, at the tomb which Leonato 
had erected for Hero. 

When the morning came, the prince accom- 
panied Claudio to the church, where the good 
friar, and Leonato and his niece, were already 
assembled, to celebrate a second nuptial ; and 
Leonato presented to Claudio his ^promised 
bride : and she wore a mask, that Claudio 
might not discover her face. And Claudio 



22 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE". 

said to the lady in the mask, " Give me your 
hand, before this holy friar ; I am your hus- 
band, if you will marry me." " And when I 
lived I was your other wife," said this un- 
known lady ; and, taking oiT her mask, she 
proved to be no niece (as was pretended), but 
Leonato's very daughter, the lady Hero her- 
self. We may be sure that this proved a most 
agreeable surprise to Claudio who thought her 
dead, so that he could scarcely for joy believe 
his eyes ; and the prince, who was equally 
amazed at what he saw, exclaimed, " Is not 
this Hero, Hero that was dead ? " Leonato 
replied, " She died, my lord, but while her 
slander lived." The friar promised them an 
explanation of this seeming miracle, after the 
ceremony was ended; and was proceeding to 
marry them, when he was interrupted by Ben- 
edick, who desired to be married at the same 
time to Beatrice. Beatrice making some de- 
mur to this match, and Benedick challenging 
her with her love for him, which he had learnt 
from Hero, a pleasant explanation took place ; 
and they found that they had both been tricked 
into a belief of love, which had never existed, 
and had become lovers in truth by the power 
of a false jest : but the affection, which a merry 
invention had cheated them into was grown too 
powerful to be shaken by a serious explana- 
tion ; and since Benedick proposed to marry, 
he was resolved to think nothing to the pur- 
pose that the world could say against it ; and 
he merrily kept up the jest, and swore to Bea* 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 23 

trice that he took her but for pity, and because 
he heard she was dying of love for him ; and 
Beatrice protested that she yielded but upon 
great persuasion, and partly to save his life, 
for she heard he was in a consumption. So 
these two mad wits were reconciled, and made 
a match of it, after Claudio and Hero were 
married ; and to complete the history, Don 
John, the contriver of the villany, was taken in 
his flight and brought back to Messina ; and a 
brave punishment it was to this gloomy and 
discontented man, to see the joy and feastings 
which, by the disappointment of his plots, took 
place at the palace in Messina. 



A. MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 

There was a law in the city of Athens 
wnich gave to its citizens the power of com- 
pelling their daughters to marry whomsoever 
they pleased : for upon a daughter's refusing 
to marry the man her father had chosen to be 
her husband, the father was empowered by' 
this law to cause her to be put to death ; but 
as fathers do not often desire the death of 
their own daughters, even though they do 
happen to prove a little refractory, this law 
was seldom or never put in execution, though 
perhaps the young ladies of that city were not 
unfrequently threatened by their parents with 
the terrors of it. 

There was one instance, however, of an old 
man, whose name was Egeus, who actually did 
come before Theseus (at that time the reign- 
ing duke of Athens), to complain that his 
daughter Hermia, whom he had commanded 
to marry Demetrius, a young man of a noble 
Athenian family, refused to obey him, because 
she loved another young Athenian, named Ly- 
sander. Egeus demanded justice of Theseus, 
and desired that this cruel law might be put 
in force against his daughter. 

Hermia pleaded in excuse for her dis* 

24 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 25 

obedience, that Demetrius had formerly pro- 
fessed love for her dear friend Helena, and 
that Helena loved Demetrius to distraction ;, 
but this honorable reason which Hermia gave 
for not obeying her father's command moved 
not the stern Egeus. 

Theseus, though a great and merciful 
prince, had no power to alter the laws of his 
country ; therefore he could only give Hermia 
four days to consider of it : and at the end of 
that time, if she still refused to marry De- 
metrius, she was to be put to death. 

When Hermia was dismissed from the 
presence of the duke, she went to her lover 
Lysander, and told him the peril she was in, 
and that she must either give up him and 
marry Demetrius, or lose her life in four days. 

Lysander was in great affliction at hearing 
these evil tidings ; but recollecting that he had 
an aunt who lived at some distance from 
Athens, and that at the place where she lived 
the cruel law could not be put in force 
against Hermia (this law not extending be- 
yond the boundaries of the city), he proposed 
to Hermia, that she should steal out of her 
father's house that night, and go with him to 
his aunt's house, where he would marry her. 
" I will meet you," said Lysander, " in the 
wood a few miles without the city ; in that 
delightful wood where we have so often 
walked with Helena in the pleasant month 
of May." 

To this proposal Hermia joyfully agreed; 



26 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

and she told no one of her intended flight but 
her friend Helena. Helena (as maidens will 
do foolish things for love) very ungenerously 
resolved to go and tell this to Demetrius, 
though she could hope no benefit from be- 
traying her friend's secret, but the poor 
pleasure of following her faithless lover to 
the wood ; for she well knew that Demetrius 
would go thither in pursuit of Hermia. 

The wood, in which Lysander and Hermia 
proposed to meet, was the favorite haunt of 
those little beings known by the name of 
Fairies. 

Oberon the king, and Titania the queen, of 
the Fairies, with all their tiny train of followers, 
in this wood held their midnight revels. 

Between this little king and queen of 
sprites there happened, at this time, a sad 
disagreement ; they never met by moonlight 
in the shady walks of this pleasant wood but 
they were quarreling, till all their fairy elves 
would creep into acorn cups and hide them- 
selves for fear. 

The cause of this unhappy disagreement 
was Titania's refusing to give Oberon a little 
changeling boy, whose mother had been 
Titania's friend ; and upon her death the fairy 
queen stole the child from its nurse, and 
brought him up in the woods. 

The night on which the lovers were to meet 
in this wood, as Titania was walking with 
some of her maids of honor, she met Oberon 
attended by his train of fairy courtiers. 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 27 

"III met by moonlight, proud lltania," said 
the fairy king. The queen replied, " What, 
jealous Oberon, is it you? Fairies, skip 
hence ; I have forsworn his company. " 
" Tarry, rash fairy," said Oberon ; " am not 
I thy lord ? Why does Titania cross her 
Oberon ? Give me your little changeling boy 
to be my page." 

" Set your heart at rest,"-answeredthe queen; 
" your whole fairy kingdom buys not the boy 
of me." She then left her lord in great anger. 
" Well, go your way,"' said Oberon ; " before 
the morning dawns I will torment you for this 
injury." 

Oberon then sent for Puck, his chief favor- 
ite and privy councilor. 

Puck- (or, as he was sometimes called, Robin 
Goodfellow) was a shrewd and knavish sprite, 
and used to play comical pranks in the neighbor- 
ing villages ; sometimes getting into the dairies 
. and skimming the milk ; sometimes plunging 
his light and airy form into the butter-churn, 
and while he was dancing his fantastic shape 
in the churn, in vain the dairymaid would 
labor to change her cream into butter : nor 
had the village swains any better success ; 
whenever Puck chose to play his freaks in the 
brewing copper, the ale was sure to be spoiled. 
When a few good neighbors were met to drink 
some comfortable ale together, Puck would 
jump into the bowl of ale in the likeness of a 
roasted crab, and when some old goody was 
going to drink,' he -would bob against her 



28 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

lips, and spill the ale over her withered 
chin ; and presently after, when the same old 
dame was gravely seating herself to tell her 
neighbors a sad and melancholy story, Puck 
would slip her three-legged stool from under 
her, and down toppled the poor old woman, 
and then the old gossips would hold their sides 
and laugh at her, and swear they never wasted 
a merrier hour. 

" Come hither, Puck," said Oberon to this 
little merry wanderer of the night ; " fetch me 
the flower which maids call Love in Idleness ; 
the juice of that little purple flower laid on 
the eyelids of those who sleep, will make them, 
when they awake, dote on the first thing they 
see. Some of the juice of that flower I will 
drop on the eyelids of my Titania when she is 
asleep ; and the first thing she looks upon 
when she opens her eyes she will fall in love 
with, even though it be a lion, or a bear, a 
meddling monkey, or a busy ape : and before 
[ will take this charm from off her sight, 
tvhich I can do with another charm I know of, 
I will make her give me that boy to be my 
page." 

Puck, who loved mischief to his heart, was 
highly diverted with this intended frolic of his 
master, and ran to seek the flower ; and while 
Oberon was waiting the return of Puck, he 
observed Demetrius and Helena enter the 
wood : he overheard Demetrius reproaching 
Helena for following him, and after many 
unkind words on his part, and gentle expostu- 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 29 

lations from Helena, reminding him of his 
former love and professions of true faith to 
tier, he left her (as he said) to the mercy of the 
■wild beasts, and she ran after him as swiftly as 
she could. 

The fairy king, who was always friendly to true 
lovers, felt great compassion for Helena ; and 
perhaps, as Lysander said they used to walk 
by moonlight in this pleasant wood, Oberon 
might have seen Helena in those happy times 
when she was beloved by Demetrius. How- 
ever that might be, when Puck returned with 
the little purple flower, Oberon said to his 
favorite, " Take a part of this flower : there 
has been a sweet Athenian lady here, who is 
in love with a disdainful youth ; if you find 
him sleeping, drop some of the love-juice in 
his eyes, but contrive to do it when she is 
near him, that the first thing he sees when he 
awakes may be this despised lady. You wil' 
know the man by the Athenian garments which 
he wears." Puck promised to manage this 
matter very dexterously; and then Oberon 
went, unperceived by Titania, to her bower, 
where she was preparing to go to rest. Her 
fairy bower was a bank, where grew wild 
thyme, cowslips, and sweet violets under a 
canopy of woodbine, musk-roses, and eglantine. 
There Titania always slept some part of the 
night; her coverlet the enameled skin of a 
snake, which, though a small mantle, was wide 
enough to wrap a fairy in. 

He found Titania giving orders to her fairies, 



30 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

how they were to employ themselves while 
she slept. " Some of you," said her majesty, 
" must kill cankers in the musk-rosebuds, and 
some wage war with the bats for their leathern 
wings, to make my small elves coats ; and some 
of you keep watch that the clamorous owl, 
that nightly hoots, come not near me ; but 
first sing me to sleep." Then they began to 
sing this song : — 

" You spotted snakes with double tongue, 
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen ; 
Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong, 
Come not near our Fairy Queen. 
Philomel, with melody. 
Sing in your sweet lullaby, 
Lulla, lulla, lullaby ; lulla, lulla, lullaby : 
Never harm, nor spell, nor charm 
Come our lovely lady nigh ; 
So good-night with lullaby." 

When the fairies had sung their queen 
asleep with this pretty lullaby, they left her, to 
perform the important services she had en- 
joined them. Oberon then softly drew near 
his Titania, and dropped some of the love-juice 
on her eyelids, saying. 

" What thou seest, when thou dost wake. 
Do it for thy true-love sake." 

But to return to Hermia, who made her 
escape out of her father's house that night, to 
avoid the death she was doomed to for refusing 
to marry Demetrius, When she entered the 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. -x 

wood, she found her dear Lysander waiting 
for her, to conduct her to his aunt's house; 
but before they had passed half through the 
wood, Hermia was so much fatigued, that 
Lysander, who was very careful of this dear 
lady, who had proved her affection for him 
even by hazarding her life for his sake, per- 
suaded her to rest till morning on a bank of soft 
moss, and lying down hirnself on the ground 
at some little distance, they soon fell fast 
asleep. Here they were found by Puck, who 
seeing a handsome young man asleep, and 
perceiving that his clothes were made in the 
Athenian fashion, and that a pretty lady was 
sleeping near him, concluded that this must 
be the Athenian maid and her disdainful lover 
whom Oberon had sent him to seek ; and he 
naturally enough conjectured that as they were 
alone together, she must be the first thing he 
would see when he awoke ; so without more 
ado, he proceeded to pour some of the juice 
of the little purple flower into his eyes. But 
it so fell out, that^Helena came that way, and, 
instead of Hermia, was the first object Lysan- 
der beheld when he opened his eyes : and 
strange to relate, so powerful was the love- 
charm, that all his love for Hermia vanishea 
away, and Lysander fell in love with Helena. 
■ Had he first seen Hermia when he awoke, 
the blunder Puck committed would have been 
of no consequence, for he could not love that 
faithful lady too well ; but for poor Lysander 
to be forced by a fairy love-charm to forget 



-32 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



his own true Hermia, and to run after another 
lady, and leave Hermia asleep quite alone in 
a wood at midnight, was a sad chance indeed. 
Thus this misfortune happened. Helena, 
as has been before related, endeavored to 
keep pace with Demetrius when he ran away 
so rudely from her ; but she could not con- 
tinue this unequal race long, men being always 
better runners in a long race than ladies. 
Helena soon lost sight of Demetrius ; and as 
she was wandering about dejected and forlorn, 
she arrived at the place where Lysander was 
sleeping. " Ah 1 " said she, " this is Lysander 
lying on the ground : is he dead or asleep ? " 
Then gently touching him, she said, " Good 
sir, if you are alive, awake." Upon this 
Lysander opened his eyes, and (the love- 
charm beginning to work) immediately ad- 
dressed her in terms of extravagant love and 
admiration ; telling her, she as much excelled 
Hermia in beauty as a dove does a raven, and 
that he would run through fire for her sweet 
sake ; and many more such 15ver-like speeches. 
Helena, knowing Lysander was her friend 
Hermia's lover, and that he was solemnly 
engaged to marry her, was in the utmost rage 
when she heard herself addressed in this 
manner ; for she thought (as well she might) 
(hat Lysander was making a jest of her." 
*' Oh ! " said she, " why was I born to be 
mocked and scorned by every one ? Is it not 
enough, is it not enough, young man, that X. 
cari never get a sweet look or a kind word from 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 33 

Demetrius ; but you, sir, must pretend in this 
disdainful manner to court me ? I thought, 
Lysander, you were a lord of more true gen- 
tleness." Saying these words in great anger, 
she ran away ; and Lysander followed her, 
quite forgetful of his own Hermia, who was 
still asleep. 

When Hermia awoke, she was in a sad fright 
at finding herself alone. She wandered about 
the wood, not knowing what was become of 
Lysander, or which way to go to seek for him. 
In the meantime Demetrius not being able to 
find Hermia and his rival Lysander, and fa- 
tigued with his fruitless search, was observed 
by Oberon fast asleep. Oberon had learnt, 
by some questions he had asked of Puck, that 
he liad applied the love-charm to the wrong 
person's eyes ; and now having found the 
person first intended, he touched the eyelids of 
the sleeping Demetrius with the love-juice, and 
he instantly awoke ; and the first thing he saw 
being Helena, he, as Lysander had done before, 
began to address love-speeches to her : and 
just at that moment Lysander, followed by 
Hermia (for through Puck's unlucky mistake it 
was now become Hermia's turn to run after 
her lover), made his appearance ; and then 
Lysander and Demetrius, both speaking to- 
gether, made love to Helena, they being each 
one under the influence of the same potent 
charm. 

The astonished Helena thought that Deme- 
trius, Lysander, and her once dear friend Her* 

3 



3^ 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



mia, were all in a plot together to make a jest 
of her. 

Hermia was as much surprised as Helena : she 
knew not why Lysander and Demetrius, who 
both before loved her, were now become the 
lovers of Helena; and to Hermia the matter 
seemed to be no jest. 

The ladies, who before had always been the 
dearest of friends, now fell to high words 
together. 

" Unkind Hermia," said Helena, " it is you 
have set Lysander on, to vex me with mock 
praises ; and your other lover Demetrius, who 
used almost to spurn me with his foot, have 
you not bid him call me Goddess, Nymph, rare, 
precious, and celestial "i He would not speak 
thus to me, whom he hates, if you did nc^ set 
him on to make a jest of me. Unkind Hermia, 
to join with men in scorning your poor friend. 
Have you forgot our school-day friendship ? 
How often, Hermia, have we two, sitting on 
one cushion, both singing one song, with our 
needles working the same flower, both on the 
same sampler wrought ; growing up together 
in fashion of a double cherry, scarcely seeming 
parted ? Hermia, it is not friendly in you, it is 
not maidenly, to join with men in scorning your 
poor friend." 

" I am amazed at your passionate words, " 
said Hermia : " I scorn you not ; it seems 
you scorn me." " Ay, do," returned Helena, 
''persevere, counterfeit serious looks, and make 
mouths at me when J turn my back ; then wink 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 35 

at each other, and hold the sweet jest up. If 
you had any pity, grace, or manners, you would 
not use me thus." 

While Helena and Hermia were speaking 
these angry words to each other, Demetrius 
and Lysander left them, to fight together in the 
wood for the love of Helena, 

When they found the gentlemen had left 
them, they departed, and once more wandered 
weary in the wood in search of their lovers. 

As soon as they were gone, the fairy king, 
who with little Puck had been listening to their 
quarrels, said to him, " This is your negligence, 
Puck ; or did you do this willfully ? " " Believe 
me, king of shadows," answered Puck, " it 
was a mistake : did not you tell me I should 
know the man by his Athenian garments ? 
However, I am not sorry this has happened, 
for I think their jangling makes me excellent 
sport." " You heard," said Oberon, " that De- 
metrius and Lysander are gone to seek a con- 
venient place to fight in. I command you to 
overhang the night with a thick fog, and lead 
these quarrelsome lovers so astray in the dark, 
that they shall not be able to find each other. 
Counterfeit each of their voices to the other, and 
with bitter taunts provoke them to follow you, 
while they think it is their rival's tongue they 
hear. See you do this, till they are so weary 
that they can go no farther ; and when you 
find they are asleep, drop the juice of this 
other flower into Lysander's eyes, and when he 
awakes he will forget his new love for Helena, 



36 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

and return to his old passion for Hermia j 
and then the two fair ladies may each one be 
happy with the man she loves ; and they will 
think all that has passed a vexatious dream. 
About this quickly, Puck ; and I will go and 
see what sweet love my Titania has found." 

Titania was still sleeping, and Oberon, see- 
ing a clown near her, who had lost his way in 
the wood, and was likewise asleep : " This 
fellow," said he, " shall be my Titania'a true- 
love ; " and clapping an ass's head over the 
clown's, it seemed to fit him as well as if it 
had grown upon his own shoulders. Though 
Oberon fixed the ass's head on very gently, it 
awakened him, and rising up, unconscious of 
what Oberon had done to him, he went towards 
the bower where the fairy queen slept. 

" Ah ! what angel is that I see ! " said 
Titania, opening her eyes, and the juice of the 
little purple flower beginning to take effect : 
"Are you as wise as you are beautiful ? " 

" Why, mistress," said the foolish clown, 
" if I have wit enough to find the way out of 
this wood, I have enough to serve my turn." 

" Out of the wood do not desire to go," said 
the enamored queen. " I am a spirit of no 
common rate. I love you. Go with me, and 
I will give you fairies to attend upon you." 

She then called four of her lairies : their 
names were Pease-blossom, Cobweb, Moth, 
and Mustard-seed. 

"Attend," said the queen, " upon this sweet 
gentleman; hop in his walks, and gambol in 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 37 

his sight ; feed him with grapes and apricots, 
and steal for him the honey-bags from the bees. 
Come, sit with me," said she to the clown, 
" and let me play with your amiable hairy 
cheeks, my beautiful ass ! and kiss your fair 
large ears, my gentle joy ! " 

" Where is Pease-blossom ? " said the ass 
headed clown ; not much regarding the fairy- 
queen's courtship, but very proud of his new 
attendants. 

" Here, sir," said little Pease-blossom. 

" Scratch my head," said the clown. 
" Where is Cobweb ? " 

" Here, sir," said Cobweb. 

" Good Mr. Cobweb," said the foolish clown, 
•' kill me the red humble-bee on the top of that 
thistle yonder ; and, good Mr. Cobweb, bring 
me the honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too 
much in the action, Mr. Cobweb, and take 
care the honey-bag break not; I should be 
sorry to have you overflown with a honey-bag. 
Where is Mustard-seed ? " 

" Here, sir," said Mustard-seed; "what is 
your will ? " 

" Nothing," said the clown, " good Mr. 
Mustard-seed, but to help Mr. Pease-blossom 
to scratch : I must go to a barber's, Mr. Mus- 
tard-seed, for methinks I am marvelous hairy 
about the face." 

" My sweet love," said the queen, " what 
will you have to eat ? I have a venturous fairy 
shall seek the squirrel's hoard, and fetch you 
some new nuts." 



3*8 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

" I had rather have a handful of dried pease,** 
said the clown, who with his ass's head had 
s^ot an ass's appetite. " But, I pray, let none 
of your people disturb me, for I have a mind 
to sleep." 

" Sleep then," said the queen, "and I will 
wind you in my arms. O how I love you ! 
How I dote upon you ! " 

When the fairy king saw the clown sleeping 
in the arms of his queen, he advanced within 
her sight, and reproached her with having 
lavished her favors upon an ass. 

This she could not deny, as the clown was 
then sleeping within her arms, with his ass's 
head crowned by her with flowers. 

When Oberon had teased her for some time, 
he again demanded the changeling-boy ; which 
she, ashamed of being discovered by her lord 
with her new favorite, did not dare to refuse 
him. 

Oberon, having thus obtained the little boy 
he had so long wished for to be his page, took 
pity on the disgraceful situation into which, by 
his merry contrivance, he had brought his 
Titania, and threw some of the juice of the 
other flower into her eyes ; and the fairy-queen 
immediately recovered her senses, and won- 
dered at her late dotage, saying how she now 
loathed the sight of the strange monster. 

Oberon likewise took the ass's head from 
off the clown, and left him to finish his nap 
with his own fool's head upon his shoulders. 

Oberon and his Titania being now perfectly 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 39 

reconciled, he related to her the history of the 
lovers, and their midnight quarrels ; and she 
agreed to go with him, and see the end of 
their adventures. 

The fairy king and queen found the lovers 
and their fair ladies, at no great distance 
from each other, sleeping on a grass-plot; 
for Fuck, to make amends for his former 
mistake, had contrived with the utmost dili- 
gence to bring them all to the same spot, 
unknown to each other ; and he had carefully 
removed the charm from off the eyes of 
Lysander with the antidote the fairy king 
gave to him. 

Hermia first awoke, and finding her lost 
Lysander asleep so near her, was looking at 
him and wondering at his strange inconstancy. 
Lysander presently opening his eyes, and see- 
ing his dear Hermia, recovered his reason, 
which the fairy charm had before clouded, and 
with his reason, his love for Hermia ; and they 
began to talk over the adventures of the night, 
doubting if these things had really happened, 
or if they had both been dreaming the same 
bewildering dream. 

Helena and Demetrius were by this time 
awake ; and a sweet sleep having quieted 
Helena's disturbed and angry spirits, she lis- 
tened with delight to the professions of love 
which Demetrius still made to her, and which, 
to her surprise as well as pleasure, she began 
to perceive were sincere. 

These fa-ir night-wandering ladies, now no 



40 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

longer rivals, became once more true friends ; 
all the unkind words which had passed were 
forgiven, and they calmly consulted together 
what was best to be done in their present situa- 
tion. It was soon agreed that, as Demetrius 
had given up his pretensions to Hermia, he 
should endeavor to prevail upon her father to 
revoke the cruel sentence of death which had 
been passed against her. Demetrius was pre- 
paring to return to Athens for this friendly 
purpose, when they were surprised with the 
sight of Egeus, Hermia's father, who came to 
the wood in pursuit of his runaway daughter. 

When Egeus understood that Demetrius 
would not now marry his daughter, he no longer 
opposed her marriage with Lysander, but gave 
his consent that they should be wedded on the 
fourth day from that time, being the same day 
on which Hermia had been condemned to lose 
her life ; and on that same day Helena joyfully 
agreed to marry her beloved and now faithful 
Demetrius, 

The fairy king and queen, who were invisible 
spectators of this reconciliation, and now saw 
the happy ending of the lovers' history brought 
about through the good offices of Oberon, 
received so much pleasure, that these kind 
spirits resolved to celebrate the approaching 
nuptials with sports and revels throughout their 
fairy kingdom. 

And now, if any are offended with this story 
of fairies and their pranks, as judging it in- 
credible and strange, they have only to think 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 41 

that they have been asleep and dreaming, and 
that all these adventures were visions which 
they saw in their sleep : and I hope none of 
my readers will be so unreasonable as to be 
offended with a pretty, harmless Midsummei 
Night's Dream- 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 

In the city of Vienna there once reigned a 
duke of such a mild and gentle temper, that he 
suffered his subjects to neglect the laws with 
impunity ; and there was in particular one law, 
the existence of which was almost forgotten, 
the duke never having put it in force during 
his whole reign. This was a law dooming any 
man to the punishment of death, who should 
live with a woman that was not his wife ; and 
this law through the lenity of the duke being 
utterly disregarded, the holy institution of mar- 
riage became neglected, and complaints were 
every day made to the duke by the parents of the 
young ladies in Vienna, that their daughters 
had been seduced from their protection, and 
were living as the companions of single men. 

The good duke perceived with sorrow this 
growing evil among his subjects ; but he thought 
that a sudden change in himself from the in- 
dulgence he had hitherto shown, to the strict: 
severity requisite to check this abuse, would 
make his people (who had hitherto loved him ) 
consider him as a tyrant : therefore he deter- 
mined to absent himself a while from his duke- 
dom and depute another to the full exercise of 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 43 

his power, that the law against these dishonor- 
able lovers might be put in effect, without 
giving offense by an unusual severity in his 
own person. 

Angelo, a man who bore the reputation of a 
saint in Vienna for his strict and rigid life, was 
chosen by the duke as a fit person to under- 
take this important charge ; and when the duke 
imparted his design to lord Escalus, his chief 
councilor, Escalus said, " If any man in Vienna 
be of worth to undergo such ample grace and 
honor, it is lord Angelo." And now the duke 
departed from Vienna under pretense of mak- 
ing a journey into Poland, leaving Angelo to 
act as the lord deputy in his absence ; but the 
duke's absence was only a feigned one, for he 
privately returned to Vienna, habited like a 
friar, with the intent to watch unseen the 
conduct of the saintly-seeming Angelo. 

It happened just about the time that Angelc 
was invested with his new dignity, that a gen- 
tleman, Vv'hose name was Claudio, had seduced 
a young lady from her parents ; and for this 
offense, by command of the new lord deputy, 
Claudio was taken up and committed to prison, 
and by virtue of the old law which had so long 
been neglected, Angelo sentenced Claudio to 
be beheaded. Great interest was made for the 
pardon of young Claudio, and the good old 
lord Escalus himself interceded for him. 
"Alas," said he, "this gentleman whom I 
would save had an honorable father, for whose 
sake I pray you pardon the young man's trans- 



44 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARh 

gression." But Angelo replied, " We must 
not make a scarecrow of the law, setting it up 
to frighten birds of prey, till custom, finding it 
harmless, makes it their perch, and not their 
terror. Sir, he must die." • 

Lucio, the friend of Claudio, visited him in 
the prison, and Claudio said to him, " I pray 
you, Lucio, do me this kind service. Go to my 
sister Isabel, who this day proposes to enter the 
convent of Saint Clare ; acquaint her with the 
drjiger of my state ; implore her that she maka 
friends with the strict deputy ; bid her go her- 
self to Angelo. I have great hopes in that ; 
for she can discourse with prosperous art, and 
well she can persuade; besides, there is a 
speechless dialect in youthful sorrow such aa 
moves men." 

Isabel, the sister of Claudio, had, as he said, 
that day entered upon her novitiate in the 
convent, and it was her intent, after passing 
through her probation as a novice, to take the 
veil, and she was inquiring of a nun concern- 
ing the rules of the convent when they heard 
the voice of Lucio, who, as he entered that re- 
ligious house, said, " Peace be in this place ! " 
" Who is it that speaks "i " said Isabel. " It 
is a man's voice," replied the nun : " Gentle 
Isabel, go to him and learn his business ; you 
may, I may not. When you have taken the 
veil you must not speak with men but in the 
presence of the prioress ; then if you speak 
you must not show your face, or if you show 
your face you* must not speak." "And have 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 45 

you nuns no further privileges ? " said Isabel, 
" Are not these large enough ? " replied the 
nun. " Yes, truly," said Isabel : " I speak 
not as desiring more, but rather wishing a 
more strict restraint upon the sisterhood, the 
votarists of Saint Clare." Again they heard 
the voice of Lucio, and the nun said, " He calls 
again. I pray you answer him." Isabel then 
went out to Lucio, and in answer to his saluta- 
tion said, " Peace and prosperity. Who is it 
that calls ? " Then Lucio, approaching her 
with reverence, said, " Hail, virgin, if such you 
be, as the roses in your cheeks proclaim you 
are no less ! can you bring me to the sight of 
Isabel, a novice of this place, and the fair sis- 
ter to her unhappy brother Claudio ?" " Why 
her unhappy brother t " said Isabel, " let me 
ask : for I am that Isabel, and his sister." 
"Fair and gentle lady," he replied, "your bro- 
ther kindly greets you by me ; he is in prison." 
" Woe is me ! for what ? " said Isabel. Lucio 
then told her Claudio was imprisoned for se- 
ducing a young maiden. " Ah," said she, " I 
fear it is my cousin Juliet." Juliet and Isabel 
were not related, but they called each other 
cousin in remembrance of their school-days' 
friendship ; and as Isabel knew that Juliet 
loved Claudio, she feared she had been led by 
her affection for him into this transgression. 
" She it is," replied Lucio. " Why, then, let 
my brother marry Juliet," said Isabel. Lucio 
replied that Claudio would gladly marry Ju'^iet, 
but that the lord deputy had sentenced him to 



46 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

die for his offense; "unless," said he, "you 
have the grace by your fair prayer to soften 
Angelo, and tliat is my business between you 
^nd your poor brother." "Alas," said Isabel, 
" what poor ability is there in me to do him 
good ? I doubt I have no power to move An- 
gelo." " Our doubts are traitors," said Lucio, 
" and make us lose the good we might often 
win by fearing to attempt it. Go to lord An- 
gelo ! When maidens sue, and kneel, and 
weep, men give like gods." " I will see what 
I can do," said Isabel : "I will but stay to 
give the prioress notice of the affair, and then 
I will go to Angelo. Commend me to my 
brother : soon at night I will send him word 
of my success." 

Isabel hastened to the palace, and threw her- 
self on her knees before Angelo, saying, " I am 
a woful suitor to your honor, if it will please 
your honor to hear me." " Well, what is your 
suit ? " said Angelo. She then made her peti- 
tion in the most moving terms for her brother's 
life. But Angelo said, " Maiden, there is no 
remedy : your brother is sentenced, and he 
must die." "O just, but severe law!" said 
Isabel : " I had a brother then — Heaven keep 
your honor ! " and she was about to depart. 
But Lucio, who had accompanied her, said, 
" Give it not over so ; return to him again, en- 
treat him, kneel down before him, hang upon 
his gown. You are too cold ; if you should 
need a pin, you could not with a more tame 
tongue desire it" Then again Isabel on her 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 47 

knees implored for mercy. " He is sentenced," 
said Angelo : " it is too late." "Too late ! " 
said Isabel : " Why, no ; I that do speak a 
word, may call it back again. Believe this, my 
lord, no ceremony that to great ones belongs, 
not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, 
the marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, 
becomes them with one half so good a grace as 
mercy does." " Pray you be gone," said An- 
gelo. But still Isabel entreated ; and she said, 
" If my brother had been as you, and you as 
he, you might have slipped like him, but he like 
you would not have been so stern. I would to 
Heaven I had your power, and you were Isa- 
bel. Should it then be thus ? No, I would tell 
you what it were to be a judge, and what a pris- 
oner." " Be content, fair maid ! " said Angelo : 
" it is the law, not I, condemns your brother. 
Were he my kinsman, my brother, or my son, 
it should be thus with him. He must die to- 
morrow." " To-morrow ? " said Isabel : " Oh, 
that is sudden : spare him, spare him ; he is 
not prepared for death. Even for our kitchens 
we kill the fowl in season ; shall we serve 
Heaven with less respect than we minister to 
our gross selves ? Good, good, my lord, be^ 
think you, none have died for my brother's 
offense, though many have committed it. So 
you would be the first that gives this sentence, 
and he the first that suffers it. Go to your 
own bosom, my lord ; knock there, and ask 
your heart what it does know that is like my 
brother's fault : if it confess a natural guilti- 



48 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

ness such as his is, let it not sound a thought 
against my brother's life J " Her last words 
more moved Angelo than all she had before 
said, for the beauty of Isabel had raised a 
r!;uilty passion in his heart, and he began to 
form thoughts of dishonorable love, such as 
Claudio's crime had been ; and the conflict in 
his mind made him turn away from Isabel : 
but she called him back, saying, " Gentle my 
lord, turn back ; hark, how I will bribe you. 
Good my lord, turn back ! " " How bribe 
me ! " said Angelo, astonished that she should 
think of offering him a bribe. "Ay,'' said 
Isabel, " with such gifts that Heaven itself 
shall share with you ; not with golden treas- 
ures, or those glittering stones, whose price is 
either rich or poor as fancy values them, but 
with true prayers that shall be up to Heaven 
before sunrise — prayers from preserved souls, 
from fasting maids whose minds are dedicated 
to nothing temporal." " Well, come to me to- 
morrow," said Angelo. And for this short 
respite of her brother's life, and for this per- 
mission that she might be heard again, she left 
him with the joyful hope that she should at 
last prevail over his stern nature : and as she 
went away she said, " Heaven keep your honor 
safe ! Heaven save your honor ! " Which, 
when Angelo heard, he said within his heart, 
" Amen, I would be saved from thee and from 
thy virtues : " and then, affrighted at his own 
evil thoughts, he said, " What is this .'' What 
is this ? Do I love her, that I desire to hear 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 49 

her speak again, and feast upon her eyes ? 
''Vhat is it I dream on ? The cunning enemy 
»f mankind, to catch a saint, with saints does 
>ait the hook. Never could an immodest 
ivoman once stir my temper, but this virtuous 
woman subdues me quite. Even till now, when 
men were fond, I smiled and wondered at 
them." 

In the guilty conflict in his mind Angelo 
suffered more that night than the prisoner he 
had so severely sentenced ; for in the prison 
Claudio was visited by the good duke, who in 
his friar's habit taught the young man the way 
to heaven, preaching to him the words of pen- 
itence and peace. But Angelo felt all the 
pangs of irresolute guilt : now wishing to se- 
duce Isabel from the paths of innocence and 
honor, and now suffering remorse and horror 
for a crime as yet but intentional. But in the 
end his evil thoughts prevailed ; and he who 
had so lately started at the offer of a bribe, re- 
solved to tempt this maiden with so high a 
bribe as she might not be able to resist, even 
with the precious gift of her dear brother's 
life. 

When Isabel came in the morning, Angelo 
desired she might be admitted alone to his 
presence : and being there, he said to her, if 
she would yield to him her virgin honor, and 
transgress even as Juliet had done with Claudio, 
he would give her her brother's life : " For," 
said he, " I love you, Isabel." " My brother," 
said Isabel, " did so love Juliet, and yet you 
4 



50 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

tell me he shall die for it." " But," said 
Angelo, " Claudio shall not die, if you will con- 
sent to visit me by stealth at night, even as 
Juliet left her father's house at night to come 
to Claudio." Isabel in amazement at his 
words, that he should tempt her to the same 
fault for which he passed sentence of death 
upon her brother, said, " I would do as much 
for my poor brother as for myself ; that is, 
were I under sentence of death, the impression 
of keen whips I would wear as rubies, and go 
to my death as to a bed that longing I had 
been sick for, ere I would yield myself up to 
this shame." And then she told him she 
hoped he only spoke these words to try her 
virtue. But he said, " Believe me, on my 
honor, my words express my purpose." Isabel, 
angered to the heart to hear him use the word 
honor to express such dishonorable purposes, 
said, " Ha ! little honor, to be much believed ; 
and most pernicious purpose. I will proclaim 
thee, Angelo ; look for it ! Sign me a present 
pardon for my brother, or I will tell the world 
aloud what man thou art ! " " Who will be- 
lieve you, Isabel ? " said Angelo ; " my unsoiled 
name, the austereness of my life, my word 
vouched against yours, will outweigh your 
accusation. Redeem your brother by yielding 
to my will, or he shall die to-morrow. As for 
you, say what you can, my false will over- 
weigh your true story. Answer me to-morrow." 
" To whom should I complain ? Did I tell 
this, who would believe me ? " said Isabel, as 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 51 

she went towards the dreary prison where her 
brother was confined. When she arrived 
there, her brother was in pious conversation 
with the duke, who, in his friar's habit, had 
also visited Juliet, and brought both these 
guilty lovers to a proper sense of their fault ; 
and unhappy Juliet with tears and a true re- 
morse confessed, that she was more to blame 
than Claudio, in that she M'illingly consented 
to his dishonorable solicitations. 

As Isabel entered the room where Claudio 
was confined, she said, " Peace be here, grace, 
and good company ! " " Who is there "i " said 
the disguised duke : " come in ; the wish de- 
serves a welcome." " My business is a word 
or two with Claudio," said Isabel. Then the 
duke left them together, and desired the pro- 
vost, who had the charge of the prisoners, to 
place him where he might overhear their con- 
versation. 

" Now, sister, what is the comfort ? " said 
Claudio. Isabel told him he must prepare for 
death on the morrow. " Is there no remedy .'' " 
said Claudio. "Yes, brother," replied Isabel, 
" there is ; but such a one, as if you consented 
to it would strip your honor from you, and 
leave you naked." " Let me know the point," 
said Claudio. " O, I do fear you, Claudio ! " 
replied his sister ; '* and I quake, lest you 
should wish to live, and more respect the tri- 
fling term of six or seven winters added to your 
life, than your perpetual honor ! Do you 
dare to die ? The sense of death is most in 



52 TALES FROM SRAKSPEARE. 

apprehension, and the poor beetle that we tread 
upon feels a pang as great as when a giant 
dies." " Why do you give me this shame ? " 
said Claudio. " Think you I can fetch a res- 
olution from flowery tenderness ? If I must 
die, I will encounter darkness as a bride, and 
hug it in my arms." " There spoke my 
brother," said Isabel ; " there my father's 
grave did utter forth a voice. Yes, you must 
die ; yet, would you think it, Claudio ! this 
outward sainted deputy, if I would yield to him 
my virgin honor, would grant your life. O, 
were it but my life, I would lay -it down for 
your deliverance as frankly as a pin ! " 
*' Thanks, dear Isabel," said Claudio. " Be 
ready to die to-morrow," said Isabel. " Death 
is a fearful thing," said Claudio. " And 
shamed life a hateful," replied his sister. But 
the thoughts of death overcame the constancy 
of Claudio's temper, and terrors, such as the 
guilty only at their deaths do know, assailing 
him, he cried out, " Sweet sister, let me live ! 
The sin you do to save a brother's life, nature 
dispenses with the deed so far, that it becomes 
a virtue." " O faithless coward ! O dishonest 
wretch ! " said Isabel : " would you preserve 
your life by your sister's shame .'' O fie, fie, 
fie ! I thought, my brother, you had in you 
such a mind of honor, that had you twenty 
heads to render up on twenty blocks, you 
would have yielded them up all, before your 
sister should stoop to such dishonor." "Nay, 
hear me, Isabel ! " said Claudio. But what he 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 53 

would have said in defense of his weakness, 
in desiring to Uve by the dishonor of his 
virtuous sister, was interrupted by the entrance 
of the duke ; who said, " Claudio, I have over- 
heard what has passed between you and your 
sister. Angelo had never the purpose to cor- 
rupt her ; what he said has only been to make 
trial of her virtue. She having the truth of 
honor in her, has given him that gracious 
denial which he is most glad to receive. There 
is no hope that he will pardon you ; therefore 
pass your hours in prayer, and make ready 
for death." Then Claudio repented of his 
weakness, and said, " Let me ask my sister's 
pardon ! I am so out of love with life, that I 
will sue to be rid of it." And Claudio retired, 
overwhelmed with shame and sorrow for his 
fault. 

The duke being now alone with Isabel, com- 
mended her virtuous resolution saying, " The 
hand that made you fair, has made you good." 
" O," said Isabel, " how much is the good duke 
deceived in Angelo ! if ever he return, and I 
can speak to him, I will discover his govern- 
ment." Isabel knew not that she was even now 
making the discovery she threatened. The 
duke replied, "That shall not be much amiss; 
yet, as the matter now stands, Angelo will repel 
your accusation ; therefore lend an attentive 
ear to my advisings. I believe that you may 
most righteously do a poor wronged lady a 
merited benefit, redeem your brother from the 
angry law, do no stain to your own most gra- 



54 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



cious person, and much please the absem duke 
if peradventure he shall ever return to have 
notice of this business." Isabel said she had 
a spirit to do anything he desired, provided it 
was nothing wrong. " Virtue is bold and never 
fearful," said the duke : and then he asked her, 
if she had ever heard of Mariana, the sister of 
Frederick, the great soldier who was drowned 
at sea. " I have heard of the lady," said Isa- 
bel, " and good words went with her name." 
" This lady," said the duke, " is the wife of 
Angelo ; but her marriage dowry was on board 
the vessel in which her brother perished, and 
mark how heavily this befell to the poor gentle- 
woman ! for, besides the loss of a most noble 
and renowned brother, who in his love towards 
her was the most kind and natural, in the wreck 
of her fortune she lost the affections of her hus- 
band, the well-seeming Angelo ; who pretend- 
mg to discover some dishonor in this honor- 
able lady (though the true cause was the loss 
of her dowry), left her in her tears, and dried 
not one of them with his comfort. His unjust 
unkindness, that in all reason should have 
quenched her love, has, like an impediment in 
the current, made it more unruly, and Mariana 
loves her cruel husband with the full continu- 
ance of her first affection." The duke then 
more plainly unfolded his plan. It was that 
Isabel should go to lord Angelo, and seemingly 
consent to come to him as he desired, at mid- 
night ; that by this means she would obtain the 
promised pardon ; and that Mariana should go 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 55 

in her stead to the appointment, and pass her- 
self upon Angelo in the dark for Isabel. " Nor, 
gentle daughter," said the feigned friar, "fear 
you to do this thing ; Angelo is her husband ; 
and to bring them thus together is no sin." 
Isabel being pleased with this project, departed 
to do as he directed her ; and he went to 
apprise Mariana of their intention. He had 
before this time visited this unhappy lady in 
his assumed character, giving her religious 
instruction and friendly consolation, at which 
times he had learned her sad story from her 
own lips ; and now slie, looking upon him as a 
holy man, readily consented to be directed by 
him in his undertaking. 

When Isabel returned from her interview 
with Angelo, to the house of Mariana, where the 
duke had appointed her to meet him, he said,- 
" Well met, and in good time ; v»fhat is the news 
from this good deputy ? " Isabel related the 
manner in which she had settled the affair. 
" Angelo," said she, "has a garden surrounded 
with a brick wall, on the western side of which 
IS a vineyard, and to that vineyard is a gate." 
And then she showed to the duke and Mariana 
two keys that Angelo had given her ; and she 
said, " This bigger key opens the vineyard gate ; 
this other a little door which leads from the 
vineyard to the garden. There I have made 
my promise at the dead of the night to call 
upon him, and have got from him his word of 
assurance for my brother's life. I have taken 
a due and. wary note of the place : and with 



56 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

whispering and most guilty diligence he showed 
me the way twice over." " Are there no other 
tokens agreed upon between you, that Mariana 
must observe ? " said the duke. " No, none," 
said Isabel, " only to go when it is dark. I 
have told him my time can be but short ; for I 
have made him think a servant comes along 
with me, and that this servant is persuaded 
I come about my brother." The duke com- 
mended her discreet management, and she, 
turning to Mariana, said, " Little have you to 
say to Angelo, when you depart from him, but, 
soft and low. Remember now my brother ! " 

Mariana was that night conducted to the ap- 
pointed place by Isabel who rejoiced that she 
had, as she supposed, by this devise preserved 
both her brother's life and her own honor. 
But that her brother's life was safe the duke 
was not v/ell satisfied, and therefore at mid- 
night he again repaired to the prison ; and 'it 
was well for Claudio that he did so, else would 
Claudio have that night been beheaded ; for, 
soon after the duke entered the prison, an 
order came from the cruel deputy, command- 
ing that Claudio should be beheaded, and his 
head sent to him by five o'clock in the morn 
ing. But the duke persuaded the provost to 
put off the execution of Claudio, and to de- 
ceive Angelo, by sending him the head of a 
man who died that morning in the prison. 
And to prevail upon the provost to agree to 
this, the duke, whom still the provost suspect- 
ed not to be anything more or greater than 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE, 57 

he seemed, showed the provost a letter written 
with the duke's hand, and sealed with his seal, 
which when the provost saw, he concluded 
this friar must have some secret order from 
the absent duke, and therefore he consented 
to spare Claudio ; and he cut off the dead 
man's head, and carried it to Angelo. 

Then the duke, in his own name, wrote to An- 
gelo a letter, saying that certain acccidents had 
put a stop to his journey, and that he should be 
in Vienna by the following morning, requiring 
Angelo to meet him at the entrance of the 
city, there to deliver up his authority; and 
the duke also commanded it to be proclaimed, 
that if any of his subjects craved redress for 
injustice they should exhibit their petitions in 
the street on his first entrance into the city. 

Early in the morning Isabel came to the 
prison, and the duke, who there awaited her 
coming, for secret reasons thought it good 
to tell her that Claudio was beheaded ; there- 
fore when Isabel inquired if Angelo had sent 
the pardon for her brother, he said, " Angelo 
has released Claudio from this world. His 
head is off, and sent to the deputy." The 
much-grieved sister cried out, " O unhappy 
Claudio, wretched Isabel, injurious world, most 
wicked Angelo ! " The seeming friar bade her 
take comfort, and when she was become a little 
calm, he acquainted her with the near prospect 
of the duke's return, and told her in what 
manner she should proceed in preferring her 
complaint against Angelo; and he bade her 



gS TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

not to fear if the cause should seem to go 
against her for a while. Leaving Isabel 
sufficiently instructed, he next went to Mariana, 
and gave her counsel in what manner she also 
should act. 

Then the duke laid aside his friar's habit, 
and in his own royal robes, amidst a joyful 
crowd of his faithful subjects assembled to 
greet his arrival, entered the city of Vienna, 
where he was met by Angelo, who delivered 
up his authority in the proper -form. And 
there came Isabel, in the manner of a petitioner 
for redress, and said, " Justice, most royal 
duke ! I am the sister of one Claudio, who 
for the seducing a young maid was condemned 
to lose his head. I made my suit to lord 
Angelo for my brother's pardon. It were need- 
less to tell your grace how I prayed and 
kneeled, how he repelled me, and how I 
replied ; for this was of much length. The 
vile conclusion I now begin with grief and 
shame to utter. Angelo would not but by my 
yielding to his dishonorable love release my 
brother ; and after much debate within myself, 
my sisterly remorse overcame my virtue, and 
I did yield to him. But the next morning 
betimes, Angelo, forfeiting his promise, sent a 
warrant for my poor brother's head ! "' The 
duke affected to disbelieve her story ; and 
Angelo said that grief for brother's death, who 
had suffered by the due course of the law. had 
disordered her senses. And now another 
§uitor approached, which was Mariana ; and 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 59 

Mariana said, " Noble prince, as there comes 
light from heaven, and truth from breath, as 
there is sense in truth, and truth in virtue, 
I am this man's wife, and, my good lord, 
the words of Isabel are false, for the night 
she says she was with Angelo, I passed that 
night with him in the garden-house. As this 
is true, let me in safety rise, or else forever 
be fixed here a marble monument." Then did 
Isabel appeal for the truth of what she had 
said to friar Lodowick, that being the name 
the duke had assumed in his disguise. Isabel 
and Mariana had both obeyed his instructions 
in what they said, the duke intending that the 
innocence of Isabel should be plainly proved 
in that public manner before the whole city of 
Vienna : but Angelo little thought' that it was 
from such a cause that they thus differed in 
their story, and he hoped from their con- 
tradictory evidence to be able to clear himself 
from the accusation of Isabel ; and he said, 
assuming the look of offended innocence, " I 
did but smile till now ; but, good my lord, my 
patience here is touched, and I perceive these 
poor distracted women are but the instruments 
of some greater one, who sets them on. Let 
me have way, my lord, to find this practice 
out." " Ay, with all my heart," said the duke, 
" and punish them to the height of your 
pleasure. -You, lord Escalus, sit with lord 
Angelo, lend him your pains to discover this 
abuse ; the friar is sent for that set them on, 
and when he comes, do with your injuries as 



6o TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

may seem best in any chastisement. I for a 
while will leave you, but stir not you, lord 
Angelo, till you have well determined upon 
this slander." The duke then went away, 
leaving Angelo well pleased to be deputed 
judge and umpire in his own cause. But the 
duke was absent only while he threw off his 
royal robes and put on his friar's habit ; and 
in that disguise again he presented himself 
before Angelo and Escalus : and the good old 
Escalus, who thought Angelo had been falsely 
accused, said to the supposed friar, " Come^ 
sir, did you set these women on to slander 
lord Angelo?" He replied, "Where is the 
duke ? It is he should hear me speak." 
Escalus said, " The duke is in us, and we will 
hear you. Speak justly," '' Boldly at least," 
retorted the friar : and then he blamed the 
duke for leaving the cause of Isabel in the 
hands of him she had accused, and spoke 
so freely of many corrupt practices he had 
observed, while, as he said, he had been a look- 
er-on in Vienna, that Escalus threatened him 
with the torture for speaking words against the 
state, and for censuring the conduct of the 
duke, and ordered him to be taken away to 
prison. Then, to the amazement of all 
present, and to the utter confusion of Angelo, 
the supposed friar threw off his disguise, and 
they saw it was the duke himself. 

The duke first addressed Isabel. He said 
to her, " Come hither, Isabel. Your friar is 
now your prince, but with my habit I have 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 6 1 

not changed my heart. I am still devoted to 
your service." " O give me pardon," said 
Isabel, " that I, your vassal, have employed 
and troubled your unknown sovereignty." He 
answered that he had most need of forgiveness 
from her for not having prevented the death 
of her brother — for not yet would he tell her 
that Claudio was living; meaning first to 
make a farther trial of her goodness. Angelo 
now knew the duke had been a secret witness 
of his bad deeds, and he said, " O my dread 
lord, I should be guiltier than my guiltiness, 
to think I can be undiscernible, when I 
perceive your grace, like power divine, has 
looked upon my actions. Then, good' prince, 
no longer prolong my shame, but let my trial 
be my own confession. Immediate sentence 
and death is all the grace I beg." The duke 
replied, " Angelo, thy faults are manifest. We 
do condemn thee to the very block where. 
Claudio stooped to death ; and with like haste 
away with him ; and for his possessions, 
Mariana, we do instate and widow you 
withal, to buy you a better husband." " O 
my dear lord," said Mariana, "I crave no 
other, nor no better man : " and then on her 
knees, even as Isabel had begged the life of 
Claudio, did this kind wife of an ungrateful 
husband beg the life of Angelo ; and she said, 
*' Gentle my liege, O good my lord ! Sweet 
Isabel, take my part ! Lend me your knees, 
and, all my life to come, I will lend you all my 
life to do you service I" The duke said. 



62 TALES FROM SHAKSPEaRL. 

" Against all sense you importune her. Should 
Isabel kneel down to beg for mercy, her 
brother's ghost would break his paved bed, and 
take her hence in horror." Still Mariana said, 
" Isabel, sweet Isabel, do but kneel by me, 
hold up your hand, say nothing ! I will speak 
all. They say, best men are molded out of 
faults, and for the most part become much the 
better for being a little bad. So may my hus- 
band. Oh, Isabel, will you not lend a knee ? " 
The duke then said, " He dies for Claudio." 
But much pleased was the good duke when his 
own Isabel,from whom he expected all gracious 
and honorable acts, kneeled down before him, 
and said, " Most bounteous sir, look, if it please 
you, on this man condemned, as if my brother 
lived. I partly think a due sincerity governed 
his deeds, till he did look on me. Since it is 
so, let him not die ! My brother had but 
justice, in that he did the thing for which he 
died." 

The duke, as the best reply he could make to 
this noble petitioner for her enemy's life, send- 
ing for Claudio from his prison-house, where 
he lay doubtful of his destiny, presented to her 
this lamented brother living ; and he said to 
Isabel, "Give me your hand, Isabel; for your 
lovely sake I pardon Claudio. Say you will b? 
mine, and he shall be my brother too." B) 
this time lord Angelo perceived he was safe ; 
and the duke, observing his eye to brighten up 
a little, said, " Well, Angelo, look that you love 
your wife ; her worth has obtained your pardoa 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 63 

joy to you, Mariana ! Love her, Angelo ! I 
have confessed her and know her virtue." 
Angelo remembered, when dressed in a little 
brief authority, how hard his heart had been, 
and felt how sweet is mercy. 

The duke commanded Claudio to marry 
Juliet, and offered himself again to the accept- 
ance of Isabel, whose virtuous and noble con- 
duct had won her prince's heart. Isabel, not 
having taken the veil, was free to marry ; and 
the friendly offices, while hid under the dis- 
guise of a humble friar, which the noble duke 
had done for her, made her with grateful joy 
accept the honor he offered her; and when 
she became duchess of Vienna, the excellent 
example of the virtuous Isabel worked such a 
complete reformation among the young ladies of 
that city, that from that time none ever fell into 
the transgression of Juliet, the repentant wife 
of the reformed Claudio. And the mercy-loving 
duke long reigned with his beloved Isabel, the 
happiest of husbands and of princes. 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 

Katherine, the Shrew, was the eldest daugh- 
ter of Baptista, a rich gentleman of Padua. 
She was a lady of such an ungovernable spirit 
and fiery temper, sii.ch a loud-tongued scold, 
that she was known in Padua by no other name 
than Katherine the Shrew. It seemed very 
unlikely, indeed impossible, that any gentleman 
would ever be found who would venture to 
marry this lady, and therefore Baptista was 
much blamed for deferring his consent to many 
excellent offers that were made to her gentle 
sister Bianca, putting off all Bianca's suitors 
with this excuse, that when the eldest sister 
was fairly off his hands they should have free 
leave to address young Bianca. 

It happened, however, that a gentleman 
named Petruchio came to Padua, purposely to 
look out for a wife, who, nothing discouraged 
by these reports of Katherine's temper, and 
hearing she was rich and handsome, resolved 
upon marrying this famous termagant, and 
taming her into a meek and manageable wife. 
And truly none was so fit to set about this 
herculean labor as Petruchio, whose spirit 
was as high as Katherine's, and he was a 
witty and most happy-tempered humorist ; and 

64. 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 65 

withal so wise, and of such a true judgment, 
that he well knew how to feign a passionate 
and furious deportment, when his spirits were 
so calm that himself could have laughed mer- 
rily at his own angry feigning, for hisnatural 
temper was careless and easy ; the boisterous 
airs he assumed when he became the husband 
of Katherine being but in sport, or more prop- 
erly speaking, affected by his excellent dis- 
cernment, as the only means to overcome in 
in her own way the passionate ways of the 
furious Katherine. 

A courting then Petruchio went to Katherine 
the Shrew, and first of all he applied to Bap- 
tista, her father, for leave to woo his gentle 
daughter Katherine, as Petruchio called her, 
saying archly that having heard of her bashful 
modesty and mild behavior, he had come 
from Verona to solicit her love. Her father, 
though he wished her married, was forced to 
confess Katherine would ill answer this char- 
acter, it being soon apparent of what manner 
of gentleness she was composed, for her music- 
master rushed into the room to complain that 
the gentle Katherine, his pupil, had broke a 
his head with her lute, for presuming to find 
fault with her performance ; which, when 
Petruchio heard, he said, " It is a brave wench ; 
I love her more than ever, and long to have 
some chat with her;" and hurrying the old 
gentleman for a positive answer, he said, " My 
business is in haste, signer Baptista, I cannot 
come every day to woo. You knew my father. 
5 



Co TALES FROM SHAKSPFARE. 

He is dead, and has left me heir to all his 
lands and goods. Then tell me, if I get your 
daughter's love, what dowry you will give with 
her." Baptista thought his manner was some- 
what blunt for a lover ; but being glad to get 
Katherine married, he answered that he would 
give her twenty thousand crowns for her dowry, 
and half his estate at his death : so this odd 
match was quickly agreed on, and Baptista 
went to apprise his shrewish daughter of her 
lover's addresses, and sent her in to Petruchio 
to listen to his suit. 

In the meantime Petruchio was settling 
with himself the mode of courtship he should 
pursue : and he said, " I will woo her with 
some spirit when she comes. If she rails at 
me, why, then I will tell her she sings as 
sweetly as a nightingale ; and if she frowns, I 
will say she looks as clear as roses newly 
washed with dew. If she will not speak a 
word, I will praise the eloquence of her 
language ; and if she bids me leave her, I will 
give her thanks as if she bid me stay with her 
a week." Now the stately Katherine entered, 
and Petruchio first addressed her with " Good 
morrow, Kate, for that is your name I hear." 
Katherine, not liking this plain salutation, said 
disdainfully, " They call me Katherine who do 
speak to me." " You lie," replied the lover ; 
" for you are called plain Kate, and bonny 
Kate, and sometimes Kate the Shrew ; but, 
Kate, you are the prettiest Kate in Christen- 
dom, and therefore, Kate^ hearing your mild- 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 67 

ness praised in every town, I am come to woo 
you for my wife." 

A strange courtship they made of it. She 
in loud and angry terms showing him how 
justly she had gained the name of Shrew, 
while he still praised her sweet and courteous 
words, till at length, hearing her father coming, 
he said (intending to make as quick a wooing 
as possible), " Sweet Katherine, let us set this 
idle chat aside, for your father has consented 
that you shall be my wife, your dowry is 
agreed on, and whether you will or no, I will 
marry you." 

And now Baptista entering, Petruchio told 
him that his daughter had received him 
kindly, and that she had promised to be 
married the next Sunday. This Katherine 
denied, saying she would rather see him 
hanged on Sunday, and reproached her father 
for wishing to wed her to such a mad-cap 
ruffian as Petruchio. Petruchio desired her 
father not to regard her angry Vv-ords, for they 
had agreed she should seem reluctant before 
him, but that when they were alone he had 
found her very fond and loving ; and he said 
to her, " Give me your hand, Kate ; I will go 
to Venice to buy you fine apparel against our 
wedding-day. Provide the feast, father, and 
bid the wedding guests. I will be sure to 
bring rings, fine array, and rich clothes, that 
my "Katherine may be fine ; and kiss me, 
Kate, for we will be married on Sunday." 

On the Sunday all the wedding guests were 



63 z-ales from shakspeare. 

assembled, but they waited long before Pe- 
truchio came, and Katherine wept for vexation 
to think that Petruchio had only been making 
a jest of her. At last, however, he appeared, 
but he brought none of the bridal finery he 
had promised Katherine, nor was he dressed 
himself like a bridegroom, but in strange dis- 
ordered attire, as if he meant to make a sport 
of the serious business he came about ; and 
his servants and the very horses on which they 
rode were in like manner in mean and fantastic 
fashion habited. 

Petruchio could not be persuaded to change 
his dress ; he said Katherine was to be married 
to him, and not to his clothes ; and finding it 
was in vain to argue with him, to the church 
they went, he still behaving in the same mad 
way, for when the priest asked Petruchio if 
Katherine should be his wife, he swore so loud 
that she should, that, all-amazed, the priest let 
fall his book, and as he stooped to take it up, 
this mad-brained bridegroom gave him such 
a cuff, that down fell the priest and his book 
again. And all the while they were being 
married he stamped and swore so, that the 
high-spirited Katherine trembled and shook 
with fear. After the ceremony was over, 
while they were yet in the church, he called for 
wine, and drank a loud health to the com- 
pany, and threw a sop which was at the 
bottom of the glass full in the sexton's face, 
giving no other reason for this strange act 
\han that the sexton's beard grew thin and 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 69 

Titjngerly, and seemed to ask the sop as he 
was drinking. Never sure was there such a 
mad marriage ; but Petruchio did but put this 
wildness on, the better to succeed in the piot 
he had formed to tame his shrewish wife. 

Baptista had provided a sumptuous marriage 
feast, but when tliey returned from church, 
Petruchio, taking hold of Katherine, declared 
his intention of carrying his wife home 
instantly; and no remonstrance of his fatlier- 
in-law, or angry words of the enraged 
Katherine, could make him change liis pur- 
pose ; he claimed a husband's right to dispose 
of his wife as he pleased, and away he hurried 
Katherine off : he seemed so daring and reso- 
lute that no one dared attempt to stop him. 

Petruchio mounted his wife upon a miserable 
horse, lean and lank, which he had picked out 
for the purpose, and himself and his servant 
no better mounted ; they journeyed on through 
rough and miry ways, and ever when this 
horse of Katherine's stumbled, he would 
storm and swear at the poor jaded beast, who 
could scarce crawl under his burthen, as if he 
had been the most passionate man alive. 

At length, after a weary journey, during 
which Katherine had heard nothing but the 
wild ravings of Petruchio at the servant and 
the horses, they arrived at his house. Petru- 
chio welcomed her kindly to her home, but he 
resolved that she should have neither rest nor 
food that night. The tables were spread, and 
supper soon served ; but Petruchio, pretending 



>jO TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

to find fault with every dish, threw the meat 
about the floor, and ordered the servants to 
remove it away, and all this he did, as he 
said, in love for his Katherine, that she might 
not eat meat that was not well-dressed. And 
when Katherine, weary and supperless, retired 
to rest, he found the same fault w^ith the bed, 
throwing the pillows and bed-clothes about the 
room, so that she v/as forced to sit down in a 
chair, where if she chanced to drop asleep, she 
was presently awakened by the loud voice of 
her husband, storming at the servants for the 
ill-making of his wife's bridal-bed. 

The next day Pctruchio pursued the same 
course, still speaking kind words to Katherine, 
but when she attempted to eat, finding fault 
with everything that was set before her, throw- 
ing the breakfast on the floor as he had done 
the supper; and Katherine, the haughty Kath- 
erine, was fain to beg the servants to bring 
her secretly a morsel of food, but they, being 
instructed by Petruchio, replied they dared not 
give her anything unknown to their master. 
"Ah," said she, "did he marry me to famish 
me? Beggars that come to my father's doot 
have food given them. But I, who never knev» 
what it was to entreat for anything, am starved 
for want of food, giddy for want of sleep, with 
oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed, and 
that which vexes me more than all, he does it 
under the name of perfect love, pretending 
that if I sleep or eat, it were present death to 
me." Here her soliloquy was interrupted by 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 73 

the entrance of Petruchio : he, not meaning 
she should be quite starved, had brought her 
a small portion of meat, and he said to her, 
" How fares my sweet Kate ? Here, love, you 
see how diligent I am, I have dressed your 
meat myself. I am sure this kindness merits 
thanks. What, not a word ! Nay, then, you 
love not the meat, and all the pains I have 
taken is to no purpose," He then ordered the 
servant to take the dish away. Extreme hun- 
ger, which had abated the pride of Katherine, 
made her say, though angered to the heart, 
" I pray you let it stand." But this was not 
all Petruchio intended to bring her to, and he 
replied, " The poorest service is repaid with 
thanks, and so shall mine before you touch 
the meat." On this Katherine brought out a 
reluctant " I thank yovi, sir." And now he 
suffered her to make a slender meal, saying, 
" Much good may it do your gentle heart, 
Kate ; eat apace ! And now, my honey love, 
we will return to your father's house, and revel 
it as bravely as the best, with silken coats and 
caps and golden rings, with ruffs and scarfs 
and fans and double change of finery ; " and 
to make her believe he really intended to give 
her these gay things, he called in a tailor and 
a haberdasher, who brought some new clothes 
he had ordered for her, and then giving her 
plate to the servant to take away, before she 
had half satisfied her hunger, he said, " What, 
have you dined ? " The haberdasher present- 
ed a cap, saying, " Here is the cap your wor* 



72 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



ship bespoke ; " on which Petruchio began t<I 
storm afresh, saying, the cap was molded in 
a porringer, and that it was no bigger than a 
cockle or walnut shell, desiring the haber- 
dasher to take it away and make a bigger. 
Katherine said, " I will have this ; all gentle- 
women wear such caps as these." " When 
you are gentle," replied Petruchio, " you shall 
have one too, and not till then," The meal; 
Katherine had eaten had a little revived her 
fallen spirits, and she said, "Why, sir, I trust I 
may have leave to speak, and speak I will : I 
am no child, no babe ; your betters have en- 
dured to hear me say my mind ; and if you 
cannot, you had better stop 3'our ears." Pe* 
truchio would not hear these angry words, for 
he had happily discovered a better way of man- 
aging- his wife than keeping up a jangling 
argument with her ; therefore his answer was, 
"Why, you say true, it is a paltry cap, and I 
love you for not liking it." " Love me, or love 
me not," said Katherine, " I like the cap, and 
I will have this cap, or none." " You say you 
wish to see the gown," said Petruchio, still 
affecting to misunderstand her. Th3 tailor 
then came forward and showed her a i|ne gown 
he had made for her. Petruchio, whose intent 
was that she should have neither cap nor gown, 
found as much fault with that. " O mercy, 
Heaven ! " said he, " what stuff is here ! 
What, do you call this a sleeve ? it is like a 
demi-cannon, carved up and down like an 
apple-tart." The tailor said, " You bid me 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 73 

make it according to tiie fashion of the times ; '* 
and Katherine said, she never saw a better 
iashioned gown. This was enough for Petru- 
chio, and privately desiring these people might 
be paid for their goods, had excuses made to 
them for the seemingly strange treatment he 
bestowed upon them, he with fierce words and 
furious gestures drove the tailor and the 
haberdasher out of the room : and then, turn- 
ing to Katherine, he said, " Well, come, my 
Kate, we will go to your father's even in these 
mean garments we now wear." And then he 
ordered his horses, affirming they should 
reach Baptista's house by dinner-time, for 
that it was but seven o'clock. Now it 
was not early morning, but the very middle 
of the day, when he spoke this ; therefore 
Katherine ventured to say, though modestly, 
being almost overcome by the vehemence of 
his manner, " I dare assure you, sir, it is two 
©'clock, and will be supper-time before we get 
there." But Petruchio meant that she should 
be so completely subdued, that she should 
assent to everything he said, before he carried 
her to her father ; and therefore, as if he were 
lord even of the sun, and could command tha 
hours, he said it should be what time he 
pleased to have it, before he set forward: 
" For,*' said he, " whatever I say or do, you 
still are crossing it. I will not go to-day, and 
when I go, it shall be what o'clock I say it is." 
Another day Katherine was forced to practice 
bei newly-found obedience^ and not till he had 



y4 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE, 

brought her proud spirit to such a perfect 
subjection that she dared not remember there 
was such a word as contradiction, wouLi 
Petruchio allow her to go to her father's 
house ; and even while they were upon their 
journey thither, she was in danger of beuig 
turned back again, only because she happened 
to hint it was the sun, when he affirmed the 
moon shone brightly at noonday. " Now, by 
my mother's son," said he, " and that is myself, 
it shall be the mxoon, or stars, or what I list, 
before I journey to your father's house." . He 
then made as if he were going back again ; 
but Katherine, no longer Katherine the Shrew, 
but the obedient wife, said, " Let us go foward, 
I pray, now we have come so far, and it shall 
be the sun, or moon, or what you please : and 
if you please to call it a rush candle hence- 
forth, I vow.it shall be so for me." This he 
was resolved to prove, therefore he said again, 
*' I say it is the moon." " I know it is the 
moon," replied Katherine. " Yon lie, it is the 
blessed sun," said Petruchio. " Then it is the 
blessed sun," replied Katherine; "but sun it 
is not, when 5?ou say it is not. What you will 
have it named even so it is, and so it ever shall 
be for Katherine." Now then he suffered her 
to proceed on her journey ; but further to try 
if this yielding humor would last, he addressed 
an old gentleman they met on the road as if 
he had been a young woman, saying to him, 
" Good morrow, gentle mistress : " and asked 
Katherine if she had ever beheld a fairef 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 75 

gentlewoman, praising the red and white of the 
old man's cheeks, and comparing his eyes to 
two bright stars ; and again he addressed him, 
saying, " Fair lovely maid, once more good 
day to you !." and said to his wife, " Sweet 
Kate, embrace lier for her beauty's sake." 
The now completely vanquished Katherine 
quickly adopted her husband's opinion, and 
made her speech in like sort to the old gentle- 
man, saying to him, " Young budding virgin, 
you are fair, and fresh, and sweet : whither 
are you going, and where is your dwelling ? 
Happy are the parents of so fair a child." 
" Why, how now, Kate," said Petruchio ; " I 
hope you are not mad. This is a man, old 
and wrinkled, faded and withered, and not a 
maiden, as you say he is." On this Katherine 
said, " Pardon me, old gentleman ; the sun 
has so dazzled my eyes, that everything I look 
on seemeth green. Now I perceive you are a 
reverend father : I hope you will pardon me 
for my sad mistake." " Do, good old grand- 
sire," said Petruchio, " and tell us which way 
you are traveling. We shall be glad of your 
good company, if you are going our way." 
The old gentleman replied, '■ Fair sir, and you 
my merry mistress, your strange encounter has 
much amazed me. My name is Vincentio, 
and I am going to visit a son of mine who 
lives at Padua." Then Petruchio knew the 
old gentleman to be the father of Lucentio, a 
young gentleman who was to be married to Bap- 
tista's younger daughter, Bianca, and he made 



; 6 TALES FR OM SHAKSPEARE. 

Vincentio very happy, by telling him the rich 
marriage his son was about to make ; and they 
all journeyed on pleasantly together till they 
came to Baptista's house, where there was 
a large company assembled to celebrate the 
wedding of Bianca and Lucentio, Baptista 
having willingly consented to the marriage of 
Bianca when he had got Katherine off his 
hands. 

When they entered, Baptista welcomed them 
to the wedding feast, and there was present 
also another newly married pair. 

Lucentio, Bianca's husband, and Hortensio, 
the other new married man, could not forbear 
sly jests, which seemed to hint at the shrewish 
disposition of Petruchio's wife, and these fond 
bridegrooms seemed highly pleased with the 
mild tempers of the ladies they had chosen, 
laughing at Petruchio for his less fortunate 
cI)oice. Petruchio took little notice of their 
jokes till the ladies were retired after dinner, 
and then he perceived Baptista himself joined 
in the laugh against him : for when Petruchio 
affirmed that his wife would prove more 
o!)edient than theirs, the father of Katherine 
said, " Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio, 
I fear you have got the veriest shrew of all." 
" Well," said Petruchio, "I say no, and there- 
fore for assurance that I speak the truth, let us 
each one send for his wife, and he whose wife 
is most obedient to come at first when she is 
sent for, shall win a wager which we wilJ 
propose. To this the other two husbands 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 



77 



KTilIingly consented, for they were quite confi- 
dant that their gentle wives would prove more 
obedient than the headstrong Katherine ; and 
they proposed a wager of twenty crowns, but 
Petruchio merrily said, he would lay as much 
as that upon his hawk or hounds, but twenty 
times as much upon his wife. Lucentio and 
Hortensio raised the wager to a hundred 
crowns, and Lucentio first sent his servant to 
desire Bianca would come to him. But the 
servant returned, and said, " Sir, my mistress 
sends you word she is busy and cannot come." 
" How," said Petruchio, " does she say she is 
busy and cannot come ? Is that an answer for 
a wife ? " Then they laughed at him, and said 
it would be well if Katherine did not send him 
A worse answer. And now it was Ilortensio's 
turn to send for his wife ; and he said to his 
servant, " Go, and entreat my wife to come to 
me." " Oh ho 1 entreat her ! " said Petruchio. 
" Nay, then, she needs must come." " I am 
afraid, sir," said Hortensio, " your wife will 
not be entreated." But presently this civil 
husband looked a little blank, when the servant 
returned without his mistress ; and he said 
to him, " How now ! Where is my wife .-' " 
" Sir," said the servant, " my mistress says, 
you have some goodly jest in hand, and there- 
fore she will not come. She bids you coma 
to her." " Worse and worse ! " said Petru- 
chio ; and then he sent his servant, saying, 
" Sirrah, go to your mistress, and tell her I 
command her to come to me." The company 



78 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

had scarcely time to think she would not obey 
this summons, when Baptista, all in amaze 
exclaimed, " Now, by my hollidam, here comes 
Katherine ! " and she entered, saying meekly 
to Petruchio, " What is yt)ur will, sir, that you 
send for me ? " " Where is your sister and 
Hortensio's wife ? " said he. Katherine 
replied, "They sit conferring by the parlor 
fire." " Go, fetch them hither," said Petru- 
chio. Away went Katherine without reply to 
perform her husband's command. " Here is 
a wonder," said Lucentio, "if you talk of a 
wonder." "And so it is," said Hortensio; 
" I marvel what it bodes." " Marry, peace it 
bodes," said Petruchio, " and love, and quiet 
life, and right supremacy; and to be short, 
everything that is sweet and happy." Kath- 
erine's father, overjoyed to see this reformation 
in his daughter, said, " Now, fair befall thee, son 
Petruchio ! you have won the wager, and I will 
add another twenty thousand crowns to her. 
dowry, as if she were another daughter, for she 
is changed as if she had never been." " Nay," 
said Petruchio, " I will win the wager better 
yet, and show more signs of her new-built 
virtue and obedience." Katherine now enter 
ing with the two ladies, he continued, " Se« 
where she comes, and brings your frowarj/i 
wives as prisoners to her womanly persuasion . 
Katherine, that cap of yours does not becomy? 
you ; off with that bauble, and throw it under 
foot." Katherine instantly took off her cap 
and threw it down. " Lord l" said Hortea 



THE TAMING Ofi THE SHREW. 79 

sio's wife, " may T never have a cause to sigh 
till I am biought to such a silly pass ! " And 
Bianca, shp too said " Fie, what foolish duty 
call you this ? " On this Bianca's husband 
said to her, " I wish your duty were as foolish 
too ! The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca, has 
cost me a hundred crowns since dinner-time." 
"The more fool you," said Bianca, "for laying 
on my duty," " Katherine," said Petruchio, 
" I charge you tell these headstrong women 
what duty they owe their lords and husbands." 
And, to the wonder of all present, the reformed 
shrewish lady spoke as eloquently in praise 
of the wifelike duty of obedience, as she had 
practiced it implicitly in a ready submission 
to Petruchio's will. And Katherine once 
more became famous in Padua, not as hereto- 
fore, as Katherine the shrew, but as Katherine 
^themost obedient and duteous wife in Padua. 



TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU 

WILL. 

Sebastian and his sister Viola, a young 
gentleman and lady of Messaline, were twins, 
and (which was accounted a great wonder) from 
their birth they so much resembled each othen 
that, but for the difference in their dress, they 
could not be known apart. They were both 
born in one hour, and in one hour they were 
both in danger of perishing, for they were 
shipwrecked on the coast of Illyria as they 
were making a sea-voyage together. The ship, 
on board of which they were, split on a rock 
in a violent storm, and a very small number 
of the ship's company escaped with their lives. 
The captain of the vessel, with a few of the 
sailors that were saved, got to land in a small 
boat, and with them they brought Viola safe 
on shore, where she. poor lady, instead of 
rejoicing at her own deliverance, began to 
lament her brother's loss ; but the captain 
comforted her with the assurance that he had 
seen her brother when the ship split, fasten 
himself to a strong mast, on which, as long as 
he could see anything of him for the distance, 
he perceived him borne up above the waves. 
Viola was much consoled by tha hope thia 

80 



TWELFTH NIGHT. 8 1 

account gave her, and now considered how 
sne was to dispose of herself in a strange 
country, so far from home ; and she asked 
the captain if lie knew anything of lUyria. 
*' Ay, very well, madam," replied the captain, 
*' for I was born not three hours' travel from this 
place." " Who governs here ? " said Viola. 
The captain told her, Illyria was governed by 
Orsino, a duke noble in nature as well as 
dignity. Viola said, she had heard her father 
speak of Orsino, and that he was unmarried 
then, " And he is so now," said the captain ; 
' or was so very lately, for but a month ago I 
went from here, and then it was the general 
talk (as you know what great ones do the 
people will prattle of) that Orsino sought the 
love of fair Olivia, a virtuous maid, the daughter 
of a count who died twelve months ago, leav- 
ing Olivia to the protection of her brother, 
who shortly after died also ; and for the love 
of this dear brother, they say, she has abjured 
the sight and company of men." Viola, who 
was herself in such a sad affliction for her 
brother's loss, wished she could live with this 
lady, who so tenderly mourned a brother's 
death. She asked the captain if he could 
introduce her to Olivia, saying she would will- 
ingly serve this lady. But he replied, this 
would be a hard thing to accomplish, because 
the lady Olivia would admit no person into her 
house since her brother's death, not even the 
duke himself. Then viola formed another 
project in her mind, which was, in a man's 
6 



S2 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

habit to serve the duke Orsino as a page. It 
was a strange fancy in a young lady to put on 
male attire, and pass for a boy ; but the for- 
lorn and unprotected state of Viola, who was 
young and of uncommon beauty, alone, and in 
a foreign land, must plead her excuse. 

She having observed a fair behavior in the 
captain, and that he showed a friendly con- 
cern for her welfare, entrusted him with her 
design, and he readily engaged to assist her. 
Viola gave him money, and directed him to 
furnish her with suitable apparel, ordering her 
clothes to be made of the same color and in 
the same fashion her brother Sebastian used 
to wear ; and when she was dressed in her 
manly garb, she looked so exactly like her 
brother, that some strange errors happened by 
means of their being mistaken for each other ; 
for, as will afterwards appear, Sebastian was 
also saved. 

Viola's good friend, the captain, when he 
had transformed this pretty lady into a gentle- 
man, having some interest at court, got her 
presented to Orsino under the feigned name 
of Cesario. The duke was wonderfully pleased 
with the address and graceful deportment of 
this handsome youth, and made Cesario one 
of his pages, that being the office Viola wished 
to obtain : and she so well fulfilled the duties 
of her new station, and showed such a ready 
observance and faithful attachment to her 
lord, that she soon became his most favored 
attendant. To Cesario Orsino confided the 



TWELFTH NIGHT. 83 

whole history of his love for the lady Olivia. 
To Cesario he told the long and unsuccessfu) 
suit he had made to one who, rejecting his 
long services, and despising his person, refused 
to admit him to her presence : and for the 
love of this lady who had so unkindly treated 
him, the noble OrsLno, forsaking the sports of 
the field and all manly exercises in which he 
used to delight, passed his hours in ignoble 
sloth, listening to the effeminate sounds of 
soft music, gentle airs, and passionate love- 
songs ; and neglecting the company of the 
wise and learned lords with whom he used to 
associate, he was now all day long conversing 
with young Cesario. Unmeet companion, no 
doubt, his grave courtiers thought Cesario was 
for their once noble master, the great duke 
Orsino. 

It is a dangerous matter for young maidens 
to be the confidants of handsome young dukes • 
which Viola too soon found to her sorrow, fof 
all that Orsino told her he endured for Olivia, 
she presently perceived she suffered for the 
love of him : and much it moved her wonder, 
that Olivia could be so regardless of this her 
peerless lord and master, whom she thought 
no one should behold without the deepest 
admiration, and she ventured gently to hint 
to Orsino, that it was pity he should affect a 
lady who was so blind to his worthy qualities ; 
and she said, " If a lady were to love you, my 
lord, as you love Olivia (and perhaps there 
may be one who does), if you could not love 



84 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

5h.er in return, would you not tell her that you 
could not love, and must not she be content 
with this answer ? " But Orsino would not 
admit of this reasoning, for he denied that it 
was possible for any woman to love as he did. 
He said, no woman's heart was big enough to 
hold so much love, and therefore it was unfair 
to compare the love of any lady for him to his 
love for Olivia. Now, though Viola had the 
utmost deference for the duke's opinions, she 
could not help thinking this was not quite 
true, for she thought her heart had full as 
much love in it as Orsino'shad ; and she said, 

"Ah, but I know, my lord." "What do 

you know, Cesario ? " said Orsino. " Too well 
I know," replied Viola, " what love women 
may owe to men. They are as true of heart 
as we are. My father had a daughter loved a 
man, as I perhaps, were I a woman, should 
love your lordship." "And what is her his- 
tory?" said Orsino. "A blank, my lord," 
replied Viola : " she never toW her love, but 
let concealment, like a worm in the bud, prey 
on her damask cheek. She pined in thought, 
and with a green and yellow melancholy, she 
sat like Patience on a monument, smiling at 
grief." The duke inquired if this lady died of 
her love, but to this question Viola returned 
an evasive answer ; as probably she had feigned 
the story, to speak words expressive of the 
secret love and silent grief she suffered for 
Orsino. 

While they were talking, a gentleman en* 



TIVELFTH NIGHT. 85 

entered whom the duke sent to Olivia, and 
he said, ' 'So please you, my lord, I might not 
be admitted to the lady, but by her handmaid 
she returned you this answer: Until seven 
years hence, the element shall not behold her 
face; but like a cloistress she will walk veiled, 
watering her chamber with her tears for the 
sad remembrance of her dead brother." On 
hearing this, the duke exclaimed, "O she that 
has a heart of this fine frame, to pay this debt 
of love to a dead brother, how will she love 
when the rich golden shaft has touched her 
. heart!" And then he said to Viola, "You 
know Cesario, I told you all the secrets of my 
heart; therefore, go to Olivia's house. Be 
not deniedaccess ! stand at the doors, and tell 
her there your fixed foot shall grow till you 
have audience." "And if I do speak to her, 
mylord, what then?" said Viola. "Oh then," 
replied Orsino, ' 'unfold to her the passion of 
my love. Make a long discourse to her of my 
dear faith. It will well become you to act my 
woes, for she will attend more to you than 
to one of graver aspect." 

Away then went Viola; but not willingly 
did she undertake this courtship, for she was 
to woo a lady to become a wife to him she 
wished to marry: but having undertaken the 
affair, she performed it with fidelity; and 
Olivia soon heard that a youth was at her door 
who insisted upon being admitted to her 
presence. "I told him," said the servant, 



86 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

*«that you were sick : he said he knew you 
were, and therefore he came to speak with 
you. I told him that you were asleep : he 
seemed to have a foreknowledge of that too, 
and said, that therefore he must speak with 
you. What is to be said to him, lady ? for he 
seems fortified against all -denial, and will 
speak with you, whether you will or no." 
Olivia, curious to see who this peremptory 
messenger might be, desired he might be 
admitted ; and throwing her veil over her 
face she said she would once more hear 
Orsino's embassy, not doubting but that he 
came from the duke, by his importunity. Viola 
entering, put on the most manly air she could 
assume, and affecting the fine courtier's lan- 
guage of great men's pages, she said to the 
veiled lady, " Most radiant, exquisite, and 
matchless beauty, I pray you tell me if you 
are the lady of the house : for I should be 
sorry to cast away my speach upon another ; 
for besides that it is excellently well penned, 
I have taken great pains to learn it." " Whence 
come you, sir ? " said Olivia. " I can say 
little more than I have studied," replied 
Viola, " and that question is out of my part." 
" A.re you a comedian ? " said Olivia. " No," 
replied Viola ; " and yet I am not that which 
.1 play ; " meaning, that she being a woman, 
feigned herself to be a man. And again she 
asked Olivia if she were the lady of the 
house. Olivia said she was ; and then Viola, 
leaving more curiosity to see her rival's fea- 



TWELFTH NIGHT. 87 

tures than haste to deliver h tx master's mes- 
sage, said, " Good madam, \tX. me see your 
face,'" With this bold request Olivia was not 
averse to comply: for this haughty beauty, 
whom the duke Orsino had loved so long in 
vain, at first sight conceived a passion for the 
supposed page, the humble Cesario. 

When Viola asked to see her face, Olivia 
said, " Have you any commission from your 
lord and master to negotiate with my face ? " 
And then, forgetting her determination to go 
veiled for seven long years, she drew aside 
her veil, saying, " But I will draw the curtain 
and show the picture. Is it not well done ? " 
Viola replied, " It is beauty truly mixed ; the 
red and white upon your cheeks is by Nature's 
own cunning hand laid on. You are the most 
cruel lady living, if you will lead these graces 
to the grave, and leave the world no copy." 
" O, sir," replied Olivia, " I will not be so 
cruel. The world may have an inventory of 
5ny beauty. As, item, two lips, indifferent 
red; item, two gray eyes, with lids to them ; 
one neck ; one chin, and so forth. Were you 
sent here to praise me ? " Viola replied, " I 
see what you are : you are too proud, but you 
are fair. My lord and master loves you. O 
such a love could but be recompensed, though 
you were crowned the queen of beauty : for 
Orsino loves you with adoration and with 
tears, with groans that thunder love, and sighs 
of fire." " Your lord," said Olivia, " knows 
well my mind. I cannot love him; yet I 



88 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

doubt not he is virtuous ; I know him to be 
noble and of high estate, of fresh and spotless 
youth. All voices proclaim him learned, cour- 
teous, and valiant ; yet I cannot love him, he 
might have taken his answer long ago." " If 
I did love yo'i as my master does," said Viola, 
" I would make me a willow cabin at your 
gates, and call upon your name. I would 
write complaining sonnets on Olivia, and sing 
them in the dead of the night : your name 
should sound among the hills, and I would 
make Echo, the babbling gossip of the air, cry 
out Olivia. O you should not rest between 
the elements of earth and air, but you should 
pity me." " You might do much," said Olivia ; 
" what is your parentage ? " Viola replied, 
" Above my fortunes, yet my state is well. 
I am a gentleman." Olivia now reluctantly 
dismissed Viola, saying, " Go to your master, 
and tell him I cannot love him. Let him send 
no more, unless perchance you come again to 
tell me how he takes it." And Viola departed, 
■bidding the lady farewell by the name of 
Fair Cruelty. When she was gone, Olivia 
repeated the words, " Above my fortune, yet my 
state is well. I am a gentleman.^'' And she said 
aloud, " I will be sworn he is ; his tongue, his 
face, his limbs, action, and spirit, plainly show 
he is a" gentleman." And then she wished 
Cesario was the duke ; and perceiving the 
fast hold he had taken on her affections, she 
blamed herself for her sudden love ; but tha 
gentle blame which people lay upon their own 



TWELFTH NIGHT. ■ 89 

faults has no deep root: and presently the 
noble lady Olivia so far forgot the inequality 
between her fortunes and those of this seem- 
ing page, as well as the maidenly reserve 
which is the chief ornament of a lady's char- 
acter, that she resolved to court the love of 
young Cesario, and sent a servant after him 
with a diamond ring, under the pretense that 
he had left it with her as a present from Orsino. 
She hoped, by thus artfully making Cesario a 
present of the ring, she should give him some 
intimation of her design ; and truly it did 
make Viola suspect ; for knowing that Orsino 
had sent no ring by her, she began to recollect 
that Olivia's looks and manner were expres- 
sive of admiration, and she presently guessed 
her master's mistress had fallen in love with 
her. " Alas," said she, " the poor lady might 
as well love a dream. Disguise I see is 
wicked, for it has caused Olivia to breathe as 
fruitless sighs for me as I do for Orsino." 

Viola returned to Orsino's palace, and re- 
lated to her lord the ill success of the negotia- 
tion, repeating the command of Olivia, that 
the duke should trouble her no more. Yet 
still the duke persisted in hoping that the 
gentle Cesario would in time be able to per- 
suade her to show some pity, and therefore 
he bade him he should go to her again the 
next day. In the meantime, to pass away 
the tedious intervals, he commanded a song 
which he loved to be sung ; and he said, " My 
good Cesario, when I heard that song last 



90 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

night, methought it did relieve my passion 
much. Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain. 
The spinsters and the knitters when they sit 
in the sun, and the young maids that weave 
their thread with bone, chant this song. It is 
silly, yet I love it, for it tells of the innocence 
of love in the old times." 

SONG. 

Come away, come away, Death, 

And in sad cypress let me be laid ; 
Fly away, fly away, breath, 

I am slain by a fair cruel maid, 
My shroud of white stuck all with yew, O prepare it, 
My part of death no one so true did share it, 

Not a flower, not a flower sweet. 

On my black coffin let there be strown : 
Not a friend, not a friend greet 

My poor corpse, where my bones shall be 
thrown, 
A thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me O where 
Sad true lover never find my grave, to weep there. 

Viola did not fail to mark the words of the 
old song, which in such true simplicity de^ 
scribed the pangs of unrequited love, and she 
bore testimony in her countenance of feeling 
what the song expressed. Her sad looks were 
observed by Orsino, who said to her, " My 
life upon it, Cesario, though you are so young 
your eye has looked upon some face that it 
loves ; has it not, boy ? " "A little, with your 
leave," replied Viola. "And what kind of 
woman, and of what age is she ? " said Orsino. 
** Of your age, and of your complexion, my 



TWELFTH NIGHT. 



91 



lord," said Viola; which made the duke smile 
to hear this fair young boy loved a woman so 
much older than himself, and of a man's dark 
complexion ; but Viola secretly meant Orsino, 
and not a woman like him. • 

When Viola made her second visit to Olivia, 
she found no difficulty in gaining access to her. 
Servants soon discover when their ladies 
delight to converse with handsome young mes- 
sengers ; and the instant Viola arrived, the 
gates were tfirown wide open, and the duke's 
page was shown into Olivia's apartment with 
great respect ; and when Viola told Olivia that 
she was come once more to plead in her lord's 
behalf, this lady said, " I desire you never to 
speak of him again ; but if you would under- 
take another suit, I had rather hear you solicit 
than music from the spheres." This was 
pretty plain speaking, but Olivia soon explained 
herself still more plainly, and openly confessed 
her love ; and when she saw displeasure with 
perplexity expressed in Viola's face, she said, 
" O what a deal of scorn looks beautiful in the 
contempt and anger of his lip ! Cesario, by 
the roses of the spring, by maidhood, honor, 
and by truth, I love you so, that, in spite of 
your pride, I have neither wit nor reason to 
conceal my passion." But in vain the lady 
wooed ; Viola hastened from her presence, 
threatening never more to come to plead 
Orsino's love ; and all the reply she made to 
Olivia's fond solicitations was a declaration of 
a resolution Never to love any woman. 



92 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

No sooner had Viola left the lady than a 
claim was made upon her valor. A gentleman, 
a rejected suitor of Olivia, who had learned 
how that lady had favored the duke's mes- 
senger, challenged him to fight a duel. What 
should poor Viola do, who, though she carried 
a manlike outside, had a true woman's heart, 
and feared to look on her own sword ! 

When she saw her formidable rival advanc" 
ing towards her with his sword ^ drawn, she 
began to think of confessing that she was a 
woman ; but she was relieved at once from her 
terror, and the shame of such a discovery, by 
a stranger that, was passing by, who made up 
to them, and as if he had been long known to 
her, and were her dearest friend, said to her 
opponent, " If this young gentleman has done 
offense, I will take the fault on me ; and if 
you offend him, I will for his sake defy you." 
Before Viola had time to thank him for his 
protection, or to inquire the reason of his kind 
interference, her new friend met with an enemy 
where his bravery was of no use to him ; for 
the officers of justice coming up in that instant, 
apprehended the stranger in the duke's name 
to answer for an offense he had committed 
some years before ; and he said to Viola, 
" This comes with seeking you ; " and then he 
asked her for a purse, saying, " Now my neces- 
sity makes me ask for my purse, and it grieves 
me much more for what I cannot do for you, 
than for what befalls myself. You stand 
amazed, but be of comfort." His words did 



TWELFTH NIGHT 



93 



indeed amaze Viola, and she protested she 
knew him not, nor had ever received a purse 
from him ; but for the kindness he had just 
shown her, she offered him a small sum of 
money, being nearly the whole she possessed. 
And now the stranger spoke severe things, 
charging her with ingratitude and unkindness. 
He said, " This youth whom you see here, I 
snatched from the jaws of death, and for his 
sake alone I came to Illyria, and have fallen 
into this danger." But the officers cared little 
for hearkening to the complaints of their 
prisoner and they hurried him off, saying, 
" What is that to us ? " And as he was carried 
away, he called Viola by the name of Sebastian, 
reproaching the supposed Sebastian for dis- 
owning his friend as long as he was within 
hearing. When Viola heard herself called 
Sebastian, though the stranger was taken away 
too hastily for her to ask an explanation, she 
conjectured that this seeming mystery might 
arise from her being mistaken for her brother : 
and she began to cherish hopes that it was her 
brother whose life this man said he had pre- 
served. And so indeed it was. The stranger 
whose name was Anthonio, was a sea-captain. 
He had taken Sebastian up into his ship, when, 
almost exhausted with fatigue, he was floating 
on the mast to which he had fastened himself 
in the storm. Anthonio conceived such a 
friendship for Sebastian, that he resolved to 
accompany him whithersoever he went ; and 
when the youth expressed a curiosity to visit 



94 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Orsino's court, Anthonio, rather than part from 
him, came to Illyria, though he kne\v, if his 
person should be known there, his life would 
be in danger, because in a sea-fight he had 
once dangerously wounded the duke Orsino's 
nephew. This was the offense for which he 
was now made a prisoner. 

Anthonio and Sebastian had landed together 
but a few hours before Anthonio met Viola. 
He had given his purse to Sebastian, desiring 
him to use it freely if he saw anything he 
wished to purchase, telling him he would wait 
at the inn, while Sebastian went to view the 
town ; but Sebastian not returning at the time 
appointed, Anthonio had ventured out to look 
for him, and Viola being dressed the same, 
and in face so exactly resembling her brother, 
Anthonio drew his sword (as he thought) in 
defense of the youth he had saved, and when 
Sebastian (as he supposed) disowned him, and 
denied him his own purse, no wonder he ac- 
cused him of ingratitude. 

Viola, when Anthonio was gone, fearing a 
second invitation to fight, slunk home as fast 
as she could. She had not long gone, when her 
adversary thought he saw her return ; but it 
was her brother Sebastian who happened to 
arrive at this place, and he said, " Now, sir,, 
have I met you again 1 There's for you ; " 
and struck him a blow. Sebastian was no 
coward ; he returned the blow with interest, 
and drew his sword. 

A lady now put a stop to this duel, for 



TWELFTH NIGHT. 95 

Olivia came out of the house, and she too 
mistaking Sebastian for Cesario, invited liim 
to come into her house, expressing much 
sorrow at the rude attack he had met with. 
Thougli Sebastian was. as mucli surprised at 
the courtesy of tlris lady as at the rudeness of 
his unknown foe, yet he went very willingly 
into the house, and Olivia was delighted to 
find Cesario (as she thought liim) become 
more sensible of her attentions ; for though 
their features were exactly the same, there 
was none of the contempt and anger to be seen 
in his face which she had complained of when 
she told her love to Cesario. 

Sebastian did not at all object to the fond- 
ness the lady lavished on him. He seemed to 
take it in very good part, yet he wondered how 
it had come to pass, and he was rather inclined 
to think Olivia was not in her right senses ; 
but perceiving that she was mistress of a fine 
house, and that she ordered her affairs and 
seemed to govern her family discreetly, and that 
in all but her sudden love for him she appeared 
in the full possession of her reason, he well 
approved of the courtship ; and Olivia finding 
Cesario in this good humor and fearing he 
might change his mind, proposed that, as she 
had a priest in the house, they should be in- 
stantly married. Sebastian assented to this 
proposal ; and when the marriage ceremony 
was over he left his lady for a short time, in- 
tending to go and tell his friend Anthonio the 
good fortune that he had met with. In the 



£5 TALES FROM SHAKSFEARE. 

meantime Orsino came to visit Olivia, and at the 
moment he arrived before Olivia's house the 
officers of justice brought their prisoner, 
Anthonio, before the duke. Viola was with 
Orsino, her master ; and when Anthonio saw 
Viola, whom he still imagined to be Sebastian, 
he told the duke in what manner he had 
rescued this youth from the perils of the sea ; 
and after fully relating all the kindness he had 
really shown to Sebastian, he ended his com- 
plaint with saying, that for three months, both 
day and night, this ungrateful youth had been 
with him. But now the lady Olivia coming 
forth from her house, the duke could no 
longer attend to Anthonio's story ; and he 
said, " Here comes the countess : now Heaven 
walks on earth ! but for thee, fellow, thy words 
are madness. Three months has this youth 
attended on me : and then he ordered 
Anthonio to be taken aside. But Orsino's 
heavenly countess soon gave the duke cause 
to accuse Cesario as much of ingratitude as 
Anthonio had done, for all the words he 
could hear Olivia speak were words of kind- 
ness to Cesario : and when he found his 
page had obtained this high place in Olivia's 
favor he threatened him with all the terrors 
of his just revenge ; and as he was going to 
depart he called Viola to follow him, saying, 
" Come, boy, with me. My thoughts are ripe 
for mischief." Though it seemed in his 
jealous rage he was going to doom Viola to 
instant death, yet her love made her no longer 



TWELFTH NIGHT. 97 

a coward, and she said she would most joyfully 
suffer death to give her master ease. But 
Olivia would not so lose her husband, and she 
cried, " Where goes my Cesario ? " Viola 
replied, " After him I love more than my life." 
Olivia, however, prevented their departure by 
loudly proclaiming that Cesario was her hus- 
band, and sent for the priest, who declared 
that not two hours had passed since he had 
married the lady Olivia to this young man. 
In vain Viola protested she was not married 
to Olivia ; the evidence of that lady and the 
priest made Orsino believe that his page had 
robbed him of the treasure he prized above 
his life. But thinking that it was past recall, 
he was bidding farewell to his faithless mistress, 
and the young dissembler, her husband, as he 
called Viola, warning her never to come in 
Jiis sight again, when (as it seemed to them) a 
miracle appeared ! for another Cesario en- 
tered, and addressed Olivia as his wife. This 
new Cesario was Sebastian, the real husband 
of Olivia ; and when their wonder had a little 
ceased at seeing two persons with the same 
face, the same voice, and the same habit, the 
brother and sister began to question each 
other, for Viola could scarce be persuaded that 
her brother was living, and Sebastian knew 
not how to account for the sister he supposed 
drowned being found in the habit of a young 
man. But Viola presently acknowledged that 
she was indeed Viola and his sister under that 
disguise. 



98 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

When all the errors were cleared up which 
the extreme likeness between this twin brother 
and sister had occasioned, they laughed at the 
iady Olivia for the pleasant mistake she had 
made in falling in love with a woman ; and 
Olivia showed no dislike to her exchange, when 
she found she had wedded the brother instead 
of the sister. 

The hopes of Orsino were forever at an 
end by this marriage of Olivia, and with his 
hopes all his fruitless love seemed to vanish 
away, and all his thoughts were fixed on the 
event of his favorite, young Cesario, being 
changed into a fair lady. He viewed Viola 
with great attention, and he remembered how 
very handsome he had always thought Cesario 
was, and he concluded she would look very 
beautiful in a woman's attire ; and then he 
remembered how often she had said she loved 
him, which at the time seemed only the dutiful 
expressions of a faithful page, but now he 
guessed that something more was meant, for 
many of her pretty sayings, which were like 
riddles to him, came now into his mind, and 
he no sooner remembered all these things than 
he resolved to make Viola his wife ; and he 
said to her (he still could not help calling her 
Cesario and boy\ " Boy, you have said to me a 
thousand times that you should never love a 
woman like to me, and for the faithful service 
you have done for me, so much beneath your 
soft and tender breeding, and since you have 
called me master so long you shall now 



TWELFTH NIGHT. 99 

be your master's mistress, and Orsino's true 
duchess." 

Olivia, perceiving Orsino was making over 
that heart, which she had so ungraciously 
rejected, to Viola, invited them to enter her 
house, and offered the assistance of the good 
priest, who had married her to Sebastian in 
the morning, to perform the same ceremony in 
the remaining part of the day for Orsino and 
Viola. Thus the twin brother and sister were 
both wedded on the same day ; the storm and 
shipwreck which had separated them being the 
means of bringing to pass their high and mighty 
fortunes. Viola was the wife of Orsino, the 
duke of lUyria, and Sebastian the husband of 
the rich and noble countess, the lady Olivia. 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. 

Pericles, Prince of Tyre, became a volun- 
tary exile from his dominions, to avert the 
dreadful calamities which Antiochus, the 
wicked emperor of Greece, threatened to 
bring upon his subjects and city of Tyre, in 
revenge for a discovery which the prince had 
made of a shocking deed which the emperor 
had done in secret; as commonly it proves 
dangerous to pry into the hidden crimes of 
great ones. Leaving the government of his 
people in the hands of his able and honest 
minister, Hellicanus, Pericles set sail from 
Tyre, thinking to absent himself till the wrath 
of Antiochus, who was mighty, should be 
appeased. 

The first place which the prince directed 
his course to was Tharsus ; and hearing that 
the city of Tharsus was at that time suffering 
under a severe famine, he took with him store 
of provisions for its relief. On his arrival he 
found the city reduced to the utmost distress ; 
and, he coming like a messenger from heaven 
with this unhoped-for succor, Cleon, the gover- 
nor of Tharsus, welcomed him with boundless 
thanks. Pericles had not been here many davs, 
before letters came from his faithfulminister. 



PERjtvji.ES, PRINCE OF TYRE. lox 

warning him that it was not safe for him 
to stay at Tharsus, for Antiochus knew of his 
abode, and by secret emissaries, despatched 
for that purpose, sought his Ufe. Upon 
receipt of these letters Pericles put out to sea 
again, amidst the blessings and prayers of 
a whole people who had been fed by his 
bounty. 

He had not sailed far, when his ship was 
overtaken by a dreadful storm, and every man 
on board perished except Pericles, who was 
cast by the sea-waves naked on an unknown 
shore, where he had not wandered long before 
he met with some poor fishermen, who invited 
him to their homes, giving him clothes and pro- 
visions. The fishermen told Pericles the name 
of their country was Pentapolis, and that 
their king was Symonides, commonly called 
the good Symonides, because of his peaceable 
reign and good government. From them he 
also learned that king Symonides had a fair 
3'^oung daughter, and that the following day 
was her birthday, when a grand tournament 
was to be held at court, many princes and 
knights being come from all parts to try their 
skill in arms for the love of Thaisa, this fair 
princess. While the prince was listening t( 
this account, and secretly lamenting the loss 
of his good armor, which disabled him from 
making one among these valiant knights, 
another fisherman brought in a complete suit 
of armor that he had taken out of the sea 
with his fishing net, which proved to be the 



I02 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

very armor he had lost. When Pericles 
beheld his own armor he said, '• Thanks, 
Fortune ; after all my crosses you give me 
bomewhat to repair myself. This armor was 
bequeathed to me by my dead father, for 
whose sake I have so loved it, that whither- 
soever I went, I still have kept it by me, and 
the rough sea that parted it from me^ having 
now become calm, hath given it back again, 
for which I thank it, for, since I have my 
father's gift again, I think my shipwreck no 
misfortune." 

The next day Pericles, clad in his brave 
father's armor, repaired to the royal court of 
Symonides, where he performed wonders at 
the tournament, vanquishing with ease all the 
brave knights and valiant princes who con- 
tended with him in arms for the honor of 
Thaisa's love. When brave warriors con- 
tended at court-tournaments for the love of 
kings' daughters, if one proved sole victor 
over all the rest, it was usual for the great lady 
for whose sake these deeds of valor were 
undertaken, to bestow all her respect upon the 
conqueror, and Thaisa did not depart from 
this custom, for she preseiTily dismissed all 
the princes and knights whom Pericles had 
vanquished, and distinguished him by her 
especial favor and regard, crowning him with 
the wreath of victory, as king of that day's 
happiness ; and Pericles became a most 
passionate lover of this beauteous princess 
from the first moment he beheld her. 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. IC3 

The good Symonides so well approved of 
the valor and noble qualities of Pericles, who 
was indeed a most accomplished gentleman, 
and well learned in all excellent arts, that 
though he knew not the rank of this royal 
stranger (for Pericles for fear of Antiochus 
gave out that he was a private gentleman of 
Tyre), yet did not Symonides disdain to accept 
of the valiant unknown for a son-in-law, when' 
he perceived his daughter's affections were 
firmly fixed upon him. 

Pericles had not been many months married 
to Thaisa, before he received intelligence that 
his enemy Antiochus was dead ; and that his 
subjects of Tyre, impatient of his long absence, 
threatened to revolt, and talked of placing 
Hellicanus upon his vacant throne. This news 
came from Hellicanus himself, who being .a 
loyal subject to his royal master, would not 
accept of the high dignity offered him, but 
sent to let Pericles know their intentions, that 
he might return home and resume his lawful 
right/ Iv was matter of great surprise and joy 
to Symonides, to find that hi3 son-in-law (the 
obscure knight) was the renowned prince of 
Tyre ; yet again he regretted that he was not 
the private gentleman he supposed him to be, 
seeing that he must now part both with his 
admired son-in-law and his beloved daughter, 
whom he feared to trust to the perils of the 
sea, because Thaisa was with child ; and 
Farcies himself wished her to rcMTiain with her 
father till after her confinemeut, but the poor 



I04 TALES FROM SHAKSFEARE. 

lady so earnestly desired to go with her 
husband, that at last they consented, hoping 
to reach Tyre before she was brought to bed. 
The sea was no friendly element to un- 
happy Pericles, for before they reached Tyre 
another dreadful tempest arose, which so 
terrified Thaisa that she was taken ill, and in 
a short space of time her nurse Lychorida 
came to Pericles witha little child in herarms, 
to tell the sad tidings that his wife died the 
moment her little babe was born. She held 
the babe towards its father, saying, "Here is 
a thing too young for such a place. This is 
the child of your dead queen." No tongue 
can tell the dreadful sufferings of Pericles 
when he heard his wife was dead. As soon as 
he could speak, he said, "Oyougods, why do 
you make us love your goodly gifts, and then 
snatch those gifts away?" "Patience, good 
sir," said Lychorida, "here is all that is left 
alive of our dead queen, a little daughter, and 
foryour child's sake bemore manly. Patience, 
good sir, even for the sake of this precious 
charge." Pericles took the new-born infant 
in his arms, and ke said to the little babe, 
"May your life be mild, for a more blusterous 
birth had never babe! May your con- 
dition be mild and gentle, for you have had 
the rudest welcome that ever prince's child 
met with ! May that which follows be happpy, 
for you have had as chiding a nativity as fire, 
air, water, earth, and heaven, could make, to 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. 105 

herald you from the womb ! Even at the first 
your loss," meaning in the death of her 
mother, " is more than all the joys which you 
shall find upon this earth, to which you are 
come a new visitor, shall be able to recom- 
pense." 

The storm still continued to rage furiously, 
and the sailors having a superstition that while 
a dead body remained in the ship the storm 
would never cease, they came to Pericles to 
demand that his queen should be thrown over- 
board ; and they said, " What courage, sir ? 
God save you ! " " Courage enough," said 
the sorrowing prince : "I do not fear the 
storm ; it has done to me its worst ; yet for 
the love of this poor infant, this fresh new 
sea-farer, I wish the storm was over." " Sir," 
said the sailors, " Your queen must overboard. 
The sea works high, the wind is loud, and the 
storm will not abate till the ship be cleared of 
the dead." Though Pericles knew how weak 
and unfounded this superstition was, yet he 
patiently submitted, saying, " As j^ou think 
meet. Then she must overboard, most 
wretched queen ! " And now this unhappy 
prince went to take a last view of his dear 
wife, and as he looked upon his Thaisa, he 
said, " A terrible childbed hast thou had, my 
dear : no light, no fire — theunfriendlyelements 
forgot thee utterly, nor have I time to bring 
thee hallowed to thy grave, but must cast thee 
scarcely coffined into the sea, where for a 
monument upon thy bones the humming 



io6 TAx.ES I'ROM SHAK^PEARE. 

waters must' overwhelm thy corpse, lying with 
simple shells. O Lychorida, bid Nestor bring 
me spices, ink, and paper, my casket and my 
jewels, and bid Nicandor bring me the satin 
coffin. Lay the babe upon the pillow, and go 
about this suddenly, Lychorida, while I say a 
priestly farewell to my Thaisa." 

They brought Pericles a large chest, in 
which (wrapped in a satin shroud) he placed 
his queen, and sweet-smelling spices he 
strewed over her, and beside her he placed 
rich jewels, and a written paper, telling who 
she was and praying if haply any one should 
find the chest which contained the body of hi:j 
wife, they would give her burial : and then 
with his own hands he cast the chest into the 
sea. When the storm was over, Pericles 
ordered the sailors to make for Tharsus. 
" For," said Pericles, " the babe cannot hold 
out till we come to Tyre. At Tharsus I will 
leave it at careful nursing." 

After that tempestuous night when Thaisa 
was thrown into the sea, and while it was yet 
early morning, as Cerimon, a worthy gentleman 
of Ephesus, and a most skillful physician, was 
standing by the sea-side, his servants brought 
to him a chest, which they said the sea-waves 
had thrown on the land. " I never saw," said 
one of them, " so huge a billow as cast it on 
our shore." Cerimon ordered the chest to be 
conveyed to his own house, and when it was 
opened he beheld with wonder the body of a 
young and lovely lady ; and the sweet-smelling 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. loj 

spices, and rich casket of jewels, made him 
conclude it was some great person who was 
thus strangely entombed: searching further, 
he discovered a paper, from which he learned 
that the corpse which lay as dead before liim 
had been a queen, and wife to Pericles, prince 
of Tyre ; and much admiring at the strange- 
ness of that accident, and more pitying the 
husband who had lost this sweet lady, he said, 
''If you are living, Pericles, you have a heart 
that even cracks with woe." Then observing 
attentively Thaisa's face, he saw how fresh 
and unlike death her looks were ; and he said, 
'' They were too hasty that threw you into the 
sea : " for he did not believe her to be dead. 
He ordered a fire to be made, and proper cor- 
dials to be brought, and soft music to be played, 
which might help to calm her amazed spirits 
if she should revive ; and he said to those who 
crowded around her, wondering at what they 
saw, " I pray you, gentlemen, give her air ; this 
queen will live ; she has not been entranced 
above five hours ; and see, she begins to blow 
into life again ; she is alive ; behold, her eye- 
lids move ; this fair creature will live to make 
us weep to hear her fate." Thaisa had never 
died, but after the birth of her little baby had 
fallen into a deep swoon, which made all that 
saw her conclude her to be dead ; and now 
by the care of this kind gentleman she once 
more revived to light and life; and opening 
her eyes she said, " Where am I ? Where is 
my lord ? What world is this ? " By gentle 



lo8 ALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

degrees Cerimon let her understand what had 
befallen her ; and when he thought she was 
enough recovered to bear the sight, he showed 
her the paper written by her husband, and the 
jewels; and she looked on the paper, and said, 
" It is my lord's writing. That I was shipped 
at sea, I well remember, but whether there 
delivered of my babe, by the holy gods I can- 
not rightly say; but since my wedded lord I 
never shall see again, I will put on a vestal 
livery, and never more have joy." " Madam," 
said Cerimon, " if you purpose as you speak, 
the temple of Diana is not far distant from 
hence, there you may abide as a vestal. 
Moreover, if you please, a niece of mine shall 
there attend you." This proposal was ac- 
cepted with thanks by Thaisa ; and when she 
was perfectly recovered, Cerimon placed her 
in the temple of Diana, where she became a 
vestal or priestess of that goddess, and passed 
her days in sorrowing for her husband's sup' 
posed loss, and in the most devout exercises 
of those times. 

Pericles carried his young daughter (whom 
he named Marina because she was born at 
sea) to Tharsus, intending to leave her with 
Cleon, the governor of that city, and his wife 
Dionysia, thinking, for the good he had dona 
to them at the time of their famine, they would 
be kind to his little motherless daughter. 
When Cleon saw Prince Pericles, and heard 
of the great loss which had befallen him, ha 
said, " your sweet queen, that it had pleased 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYPE, loc' 

Heaven you could have brought her hither to 
have blessed my eyes with the sight of her ! " 
Pericles replied, " We must obey the powers 
above us. Should I rage and roar as the sea 
does in which my Thaisa lies, yet the end must 
be as it is. My gentle babe, Marina here, I must 
charge your charity with her. I leave her the 
infant of your care, beseeching you to give her 
princely training." And then turning to 
Cleon's wife, Dionysia, he said, " Good madam, 
make me blessed in your care in bringing up 
my child : " and she answered, " I have a 
child myself who shall not be more dear to my 
respect than yours, my lord ; " and Cleon made 
the like promise, saying, " Your noble services, 
Prince Pericles, in feeding my whole people 
with your corn (for which in their prayers they 
daily remember you) must in your child be 
thought on. If I should neglect your child, 
my whole people that were by you relieved 
would force me to my duty ; iDut if to that I 
need a spur, the gods revenge it on me and 
mine to the end of generation." Pericles be- 
ing thus assured that his child would be care- 
fully attended to, left her to the protection of 
Cleon, and his wife Dionysia, and with her 
he left the nurse Lychorida. When he went 
away, the little Marina knew not her loss, but 
Lychorida wept sadly at parting with her royal 
master. " O, no tears, Lychorida," said Peri- 
cles ; " no tears ; look to your little mistress, 
on whose grace you may depend hereafter." 
Pericles arrived in safety at Tyre, and was 



xio TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

once more settled in the quiet possession oi! 
his throne, while his woful qjeen, whom he 
thought dead, remained at Ephesus. Her 
little babe Marina, whom this hapless mother 
had never seen, was brought up by Cleon in a 
manner suitable to her high birth. He gave 
her the most careful education, so that by the 
time Marina attained the age of fourteen years, 
the most deeply-learned men were not more 
studied in the learning of those times than was 
Marina. She sung like one immortal, and 
danced as goddess-like, and with her needle 
she was so skillful that she seemed to compose 
nature's own shapes, in birds, fruits, or flowers, 
the natural roses being scarcely more like to 
each other than they were to Marina's silken 
flowers. But when she had gained from educa- 
tion all these graces, which made her the gen- 
eral wonder, Dionysia, the wife of Cleon, be- 
came her mortal enemy from jealousy, by 
reason that her own daughter, from the slow- 
ness of her mind, was not able to attain to 
that perfection wherein Marina excelled : and 
finding that all praise was bestowed on Marina, 
whilst her daughter, who was of the same age, 
and had been educated with the same care as 
Marina, though not with the same success, 
was in comparison disregarded, she formed a 
project to remove Marina out of the way, vainly 
imagining that her untoward daughter would 
be more respected when Marina was no more 
seen. To encompass this she employed a man 
to murder Marina, and she well timed her 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. m 

wicked design, when Lychorida, the faithful 
nurse, had just died. Dionysia was discours- 
ing with the man she had commanded to com' 
mit this murder, wlien tlie young Marina was 
weeping over tlie dead Lychorida. Leoline, 
the man slie employed to do this bad deed, 
though he was a very wicked man, could hardly 
be persuaded to undertake it, so had Marina 
won all hearts to love her. He said, " She is 
a goodly creature i " " The fitter then the 
gods should have her," replied her merciless 
enemy ; " here she comes, weeping for the 
death of her nurse Lychorida : are you resolved 
to obey me .'' " Leoline, fearing to disobey 
her, replied, " I am resolved," And so, in 
that one short sentence, was the matchless 
Marina doomed to an untimely death. She 
now approached, with a basket of flowers in 
her hand, which, she said, she would daily 
strew over the grave of good l,ychorida. The 
purple violet and the marigold should as a 
carpet hang upon her grave, while summer 
days did last. " Alas, for me ! " she said, 
"poor unhappy maid, born in a tempest, when 
my mother died. This world to me is like a 
lasting storm, hurrying me from my friends." 
" How now, Marina," said the dissembling 
Dionysia, " do you weep alone ? How does it 
chance my daughter is not with you 1 Do not 
sorrow for Lychorida, you have a nurse in me. 
Your beauty is quite changed with this unprof- 
itable woe. Come, give me your flowers, the 
sea-air will spoil them : and walk with Leoline : 



112 7 'ALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

the air is fine, and will enliven you. Come, 
Leoline, take her by the arm, and walk with 
her," " No, madam," said Marina, " I pray 
you let me not deprive you of your servant ; " 
for Leoline was one of Dionysia's attendants. 
" Come, come," said this artful woman, who 
wished for a pretense to leave her alone with 
Leoline, " I love the prince, your father, and I* 
love you. We every day expect your father 
here ; and when he comes, and finds you so 
changed by grief from the paragon of beauty 
we reported you, he will think we have taken 
no care of you. Go, I pray you, walk, and be 
cheerful once again. Be careful of that excel- 
lent complexion, which stole the hearts of old 
and young." Marina, being thus importuned, 
said, " Well, I will go, but yet I have no desire 
to it." As Dionysia walked away, she said to 
Leoline, " Remember zv/iat I have said f " — ■ 
shocking words, for their meaning was that he 
should remember to kill Marina. 

Marina looked towards the sea, her birth- 
place, and said, " Is the wind westerly that 
blows?" "Southwest," replied Leoline. 
" When I was born the wind was north," said 
she : and then the storm and tempest, and all 
her father's sorrows, and her mother's deatli, 
came full into her mind ; and she said, " My 
father, as Lychorida told me, did never fear, 
but cried, Courage, good seamen, to the sailors, 
galling his princely hands with the ropes, and, 
clasping to the mast, he endured a sea that 
almost split the deck." " When was this?" 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. 113 

said Leoline. " When I was born." replied 
Marina : " never were waves nor wind more 
violent." And then she described the storm, 
the action of the sailors, the boatswain's 
whistle, and the loud call of the master, 
"Which," said she, "trebled the confusion of 
the ship." Lychorida had so often recounted 
to Marina the story of her hapless birth, that 
these things seemed ever present to her 
imagination. But here Leoline interrupted 
her with desiring her to say her prayers. 
*' What mean you ? " said Marina, who began 
to fear, she knew not why. " If you require a 
litde space for prayer, I grant it," said Leo- 
line ; " but be not teidious ; the gods are quick 
of ear, and I am sworn to do my work in haste." 
" Will you kill me ? " said Marina ; " alas ! 
why ? " " To satisfy my lady," replied Leo- 
line. " Why would she have me killed ? " said 
Marina : " now, as I can remember, I never 
hurt her in all my life. I never spake bad 
word, nor did any ill turn to any living 
creature. Believe me now, I never killed a 
mouse, nor hurt a fly. I trod upon a worm 
once against my will, but I wept for it. How 
have I offended 1 " The murderer replied, 
" My commission is not to reason on the deed, 
but to do it."- And he was just going to kill 
her, when certain pirates happened to land at 
that very, moment, who, seeing Marina, bore 
her off as .a prize to their ship. 

The pirate who had made Marina his prize^ 
carried her to Metaline, and sold her for a 
8 



114 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

slave, where, though in that humble condition 
Marina soon became known throughout the 
whole city of Metaline for her beauty and 
her virtues ; and the person to whom she 
was sold became rich by the money she earned 
for him. She taught music, dancing, 2m^ 
fine needlework, and the money she got bj 
her scholars she gave to her master and 
mistress ; and the fame of her learning and 
her great industry came to the knowledge 
of Lysimachus, a young nobleman who was 
the governor of Metaline, and Lysimachus 
went himself to the house where Marina 
dwelt, to see this paragon of excellence, whom 
all the city praised so highly. Her conversa- 
tion delighted Lysimachus beyond measure, 
for though he had heard much of this admired 
maiden, he did not expect to find her so sensi- 
ble a lady, so virtuous, and so good, as he 
perceived Marina to be ; and he left her, say- 
ing he hoped she would persevere in her 
industrious and virtuous course, and that if 
ever she heard from him again it should be 
for her good. Lysimachus thought Marina 
such a miracle for sense, fine breeding, and 
excellent qualities, as well as for beauty and 
all outward graces, that he wished to marry 
her, and notwithstanding her humble situation 
he hoped to find that her birth was noble ; 
but ever when they asked her parentage, she 
would sit still and weep. 

Meantime, at Tharsus, Leoline, fearing the 
anger of Dionysia, told her he had killed 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. 115 

Marina ; and that wicked woman gave out 
that she was dead, and made a pretended 
funeral for her, and erected a stately monu- 
ment, and shortly after Pericles, accompanied 
by his loyal minister Hellicanus, made a voy- 
age from Tyre to Tharsus, on purpose to see 
his daughter, intending to take her home with 
him ; and he never having beheld her since 
he left her an infant in the care of v Cleon and 
his wife, how did this good prince rejoice at 
the thoughts of seeing this dear child of his 
buried queen ! but when they told him Marina 
was dead, and showed the monument they 
had erected for her, great was the misery this 
most wretched father endured, and not being 
able to bear the sight of that country where 
his last hope and only memory of his dear 
Thaisa was entombed, he took ship, and 
hastily departed from Tharsus. From the 
day he entered the ship a dull and heavy 
melancholy seized him. He never spoke, 
and seemed totally insensible to everything 
around him. 

Sailing from Tharsus to Tyre, the ship in 
its course passed by Metaline, where Marina 
dwelt ; the governor of which place, Lysim- 
achus, observing this royal vessel from the 
shore, and desirous of knowing who was on 
board, went in a barge to the side of the ship, 
to satisfy his curiosity. Hellicanus received 
him very courteously, and told him that the 
ship came from Tyre, and that they were con- 
ducting thither, Pericles their prince ; "^ A 



J 1 6 TALES FROM^ SHARSPEARE. 

man, sir," said Hellicanus, "who has not 
spoken to any one these three months, nor 
taken any sustenance, but just to prolong his 
grief ; it would be tedious to repeat the whole 
ground of his distemper, but the main springs 
from the loss of a beloved daughter and a 
wife." Lysimachus begged to see this afflicted 
prince, and when he beheld Pericles, he saw 
he had 'been once a goodly person, and he 
said to him, " Sir king, all hail, the gods pre- 
serve you, hail, royal sir ! " But in vain 
Lysimachus spoke to him. Pericles made no 
answer, nor did he appear to perceive any 
stranger approached. And then Lysimachus 
bethought him of the peerless maid Marina, 
that haply with her sweet tongue she might 
win some answer from the silent prince : and 
with the consent of Hellicanus he sent for 
Marina, and when she entered the ship in 
which her own father sat motionless with grief, 
they welcomed her on board as if they had 
known she M^as their princess ; and they cried, 
" She is a gallant lady." Lysimachus was 
well pleased to hear their commendations, and 
he said, " She is such a one, that were I well 
assured she came of noble birth, I would wish 
no better choice, and think me rarely blessed 
in a wife." And then he addressed her in 
courtly terms, as if the lowly-seeming maid 
had been the high-born lady he wished to find 
her, calling her Fair and beautiful Marina, 
telling her a great prince on board that ship 
bad fallen into a sad and mournful silence-* 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. 117 

and as if Marina had the power of conferring 
health and felicity, he begged she would 
undertake to cure the royal stranger of his 
melancholy. " Sir," said Marina, "I will use 
my utmost skill in his recovery, provided none 
but I and my maid be suffered to come near 
him." 

She, who at Metaline had so carefully con- 
cealed her birth, ashamed to tell that one of 
royal ancestry was now a slave, first began to 
speak to Pericles of the wayward changes_ in 
her own fate, telling him from what a high 
estate herself had fallen. As if she had 
known it was her royal father she stood 
before, all the words she spoke were of her 
own sorrows ; but her reason for so doing was, 
that she knew nothing more wins the attention 
of the unfortunate than the recital of some sad 
calamity to match their own. The sound of 
her sweet voice aroused the drooping prince ; 
he lifted up his eyes, which had been so long 
fixed and motionless ; and Marina, who was 
the perfect image of her mother, presented to 
his amazed sight the features of his beloved 
queen. The long-silent prince was once more 
heard to speak. " My dearest wife," said the 
awakened Pericles, " was like this maid, and 
such a one might my daughter have been. 
My queen's square brows, her stature to an 
inch, as wandlike straight, as silver-voiced, 
her eyes as jewel-like. Where do you live, 
young maid ? Report your parentage. I 
think you said you had been tossed fron» 



Il8 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

wrong to injury, and that you thought your 
griefs would equal mine, if both were opened." 
" Some such thing I said," replied Marina, 
" and said no more than what my thoughts 
did warrant me as likely." " Tell me your 
story," answered Pericles; "if I find you have 
known the thousandth part of my endurance, 
you have borne your sorrows like a man, and I 
have suffered like a girl ; yet you do look like 
Patience gazing on kings' graves, and smiling 
Extremity out of act. How lost you your 
name, my most kind virgin ? Recount your 
story, I beseech you. Come sit by me." How 
was Pericles surprised when she said her name 
was Marina, for he knew it was no usual name, 
but had been invented by himself for his own 
child tc signify seaborn : " O, I am mocked," 
said ht, " and you are sent hither by some in- 
censed god to make the world laugh at me." 
Patience, good sir," said Marina, " or I must 
cease here." " Nay," said Pericles, " I will 
be patient ; you little know how you do startle 
me, to call yourself Marina." " The name," she 
replied, " was given me by one that had some 
power, my . father, and a king." " How, a 
king's daughter ! " said Pericles, " and called 
Marina ! But are you flesh and blood ? Are 
you no fairy .-' Speak on ! where were you 
born ? and wherefore called Marina ? " She 
replied, " I was called Marina, because I was 
born at sea. My mother was the daughter of 
a king ; she died the minute I was born, as my 
good nurse Lychorida has often told me weep* 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. 1 19 

ing. The king my father left me at Tharsus, 
tiill the cruel" wife of Cleon souglit to murder 
me. A crew of pirates came and rescued me, 
and brought me here to Metaline. But, good 
sir, why do you Aveep ? It may be, you think 
me an impostor. But indeed, sir, I am the 
daughter to king Pericles, if good king Pericles 
be living." Then Pericles, terrified as it 
seemed at his own sudden joy, and doubtful if 
this could be real, loudly called for his attend- 
ants, who rejoiced at the sound of their be- 
loved king's voice ; and he said to Hellicanus, 
" O Hellicanus, strike me, give me a gash, put 
me to present pain, lest this great sea of joys 
rushing upon me overbear the shores of my mor- 
tality. O, come hither, thou that was born at 
sea, buried at Tharsus, and found at sea again, 
O Hellicanus, down on your knees, thank the 
holy gods ! This is Marina. Now blessings 
on thee, my child ! Give me fresh garments, 
mine own Hellicanus ! She is not dead at 
Tharsus, as she should have been by the sav- 
age Dionysia. She shall tell you all, when 
you shall kneel to her, and call her your very 
princess. Who is this ? '' (observing Lysi- 
machus for the first time). " Sir," said Hel- 
licanus, *' it is the governor of Metaline, who, 
hearing of your melancholy, came to see you." 
** I embrace you, sir," said Pericles. " Give 

me my robes 1 I am well with beholding O 

Heaven bless my girl f But hark ! what music 
is that ? "—for now, either sent by some kind 
god, or by his own delighted fancy deceived, 



1 2 o TA LBS FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

he seemed to hear soft music. " My lord, I 
hear none," replied Hellicanus. " None," said 
Pericles : " why, it is the music of the spheres." 
As there was no music to be heard, Lysi- 
machus concluded that the sudden joy had 
unsettled the prince's understanding ; and he 
said, " It is not good to cross him ; let him 
have his way : " and then they told him they 
heard the music ; and he now complaining of 
a drowsy slumber coming over him, Lysimachus 
persuaded him to rest on a couch, and placing 
a pillow under his head, he, quite overpowered 
with excess of joy, sank into a sound sleep, 
and Marina watched in silence by the couch 
of her sleeping parent. 

While he slept, Pericles dreamed a dream 
which made him resolve to go to Ephesus. 
His dream was, that Diana, the goddess of 
the Ephesians, appeared to him, and com- 
manded him to go to her temple at Ephesus, 
and there before her altar to declare the story 
of his life and misfortunes ; and by her silver 
bow she swore, that if he performed her in* 
junction, he should meet with some rare felic 
ity. When he awoke, being miraculously re 
freshed, he told his dream, and that his resolu- 
tion was to obey the bidding of the goddess. 

Then Lysimachus invited Pericles to come 
on shore, and refresh himself with such enter- 
tainment as he should find at Metaline, which 
courteous offer Pericles accepting, agreed to 
tarry with him for the space of a day or two, 
During which time we may well suppose whali 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. 12 f 

'feastingSjWhat rejoicings, what costly shows 
and entertainments the governor made in Met- 
aUne, to greet the royal father of his dear 
Marina, whom in her obscure fortunes he had 
so respected. Nor did Pericles frown upon 
Lysimachus's suit, when he understood how 
he had honored his child in the days of her 
low estate, and that Marina showed herself not 
averse to his proposals ; only he made it a con- 
dition, before he gave his consent, that they 
should visit with him the shrine of the Ephe- 
sian Diana : to whose temple they shortly after 
all three undertook a voyage ; and, the god- 
dess herself filling their sails with prosperous 
winds, after a few weeks they arrived in safety 
at Ephesus. 

There was standing near the altar of the 
goddess, when Pericles with his train entered 
the temple, the good Cerimon (now grown very 
aged) who had restored Thaisa, the wife of 
Pericles, to life ; and Thaisa, now a priestess 
sf the temple, was standing before the altar ; 
and though the many years he had passed in 
sorrow for her loss had much altered Pericles, 
Thaisa thought she knew her husband's fea- 
tures, and when he approached the altar and 
began to speak, she remembered his voice, and 
listened to his words with wonder and a joyful 
amazement. And these were the words that 
Pericles spoke before the altar : " I-Iail, 
Diana ! to perform thy just commands, I here 
confess myself the prince of Tyre, who, 
frightened from my county, at Pentapolis 



122 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

wedded the fair Thaisa: she died at sea in 
child-bed, but brought forth a maid-child called 
Marina. She at Tharsus was nursed with 
Dionysia, who at fourteen years thought to kill 
her, buther better stars brought her to Metaline, 
by whose shores as I sailed, her good fortunes 
brought this maid on board, where by her 
most clear remembrance she made herself 
known to be my daughter." 

Thaisa, unable to bear the transports which 
his words had raised in her, cried out, " You 
are, you are, O royal Pericles " • — and fainted. 
" What means this woman ? " said Pericles : 
*' she dies ! gentlemen, help ! " — " Sir, " said 
Cerimon, " if you have told Diana's altar true, 
this is your wife." " Reverend gentleman, no ; " 
said Pericles : '^ I threw her overboard with 
these very arms." Cerimon then recounted 
how, early one tempestuous morning, this lady 
was thrown upon the Ephesian shore ; how, 
opening the coffin, he found therein ricb 
jewels, and a paper; how happily he recovered 
her, and placed her here in Diana's temple. 
And now, Thaisa being restored from hei 
swoon, said, " O my lord, are you not Pericles? 
Like him you speak, like him you are. 
Did you not name a tempest, a birth, and a 
death ? " He, astonished, said, " The voice of 
dead Thaisa !" "That Thaisa am I, "she re- 
plied, "supposed dead and drowned." "O 
true Diana ! " exclaimed Pericles, in a passion 
of devout astonishment. " And now," said 
Thaisa, " I know you better. Such a ring as 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. 123 

I see on your finger did the king my father 
give you, when we with tears parted from him 
at Pentapol's.'"' "Enough, you gods!" cried 
Pericles, "your present kindness makes my 
past miseries sport O come, Thaisa, be buried 
a second time within these arms." 

And Marina said, " My heart leaps to be gone 
into my mother's bosom." Then did Pericles 
show his daughter to her mother, saying, " Look 
who kneels here, flesh of thy flesh, thy burthen 
at sea, and called Marina, because she was 
yielded there." " Blessed and my own ! " said 
Thaisa : and while she hung in rapturous joy 
over her child, Pericles knelt before the altar, 
saying, " Pure Diana, bless thee for thy vision. 
For this I will offer oblations nightly to thee." 
And then and there did Pericles, with the con- 
sent of Thaisa, solemnly affiance their daugh- 
ter, the virtuous Marina, to the well-deserving 
Lysimachus in marriage. 

Thus have we seen in Pericles, his queen and 
daughter, a famous example of virtue assailed 
by calamity (through the suffrance of Heaven, 
to teach patience and constancy to men), under 
the same guidance becoming finally successful, 
and triumphing over chance and change. In 
Hellicanus we have beheld a notable pattern 
of truth, of faith and loyalty, who, when he 
might have succeeded to a throne, chose 
rather to recall the rightful owjier to his pos- 
session than to become great by another's 
wrong. In the worthy Cerimon, who restored 
Thaisa to life, we are instructed how goodness 



124 TALES FROM SHATCSPEARE. 

directed by knowledge, in bestowing benefits 
upon mankind, approaches to the nature of the 
gods. It only remains to be told, that Dionysia, 
the wicked wife of Cleon, met with an end 
proportionable to her deserts ; the inhabitants 
of Tharsus, when her cruel attempt upon 
Marina was known, rising in a body to revenge 
the daughter of their benefactor, and setting fire 
to the palace of Cleon, burnt both him and 
her, and their whole household : the gods 
seeming well pleased, that so foul a murder, 
though but intentional, and never carried into 
act, should be punished in a way befitting its 
enormity. 



THE WINTER'S TALE. 

Leontes, king of Sicily, and his queen,_ the 
beautiful ^nd virtuous Hermione, once lived 
in the greatest harmony together. So happy 
was Leontes n the love of this excellent lady, 
that he had .10 wish ungratified, except that 
he sometimes desired to see again, and to 
present to his queen, his old companion and 
school-fellow, Polixenes, king of Bohemia. 
.Leontes and Polixenes were brought up to- 
gether from their infancy, but being by the 
death of their fathers called to reign over their 
respective kingdoms they had not met for many 
years, though they frequently interchanged 
gifts, letters and loving embassies. 

At length, after repeated invitations, Polix- 
enes came from Bohemia to the Sicilian court 
to make his friend Leontes a visit. 

At first this visit gave nothing but pleasure 
to Leontes. He recommended the friend of 
his youth to the queen's particular attention, 
and seemed in the presence of his dear friend 
and old companion to have his felicity quite 
completed. They talked over old times : 
their school-days and their youthful pranks were 
remembered, and recounted to Hermione, who 
always took a cheerful part in these conversa- 

"5 



120 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARB. 

When, after a long stay, Polixenes was pre' 
paring to depart, Hermione, at the desire of 
her husband, joined her entreaties to his that 
Polixenes would prolong his visit. 

And now began this good queen's sorrow ; 
for Polixenes refusing to stay at the request of 
Leontes, was won over by Hermione's gentle 
and persuasive words to put off his departure 
for some weeks longer. Upon this, although 
Leontes had so long known the integrity and 
honorable principles of his friend Polixenes, 
as well as the excellent disposition of his 
virtuous queen, he was seized with an ungov- 
ernable jealousy. Every attention Hermione 
showed to Polixenes though by her husband's 
particular desire, and merely to please him, 
increased the unfortunate king's jealousy 
and from being a loving and true friend and 
the best and fondest of husbands, Leontes be- 
came suddenly a savage and inhuman monster. 
Sending for Camillo, one of the lords of his 
court, and telling him of the suspicion he en- 
tertained, he commanded him to poison Polix- 
enes. 

Camillo was a good man ; and he, well 
knowing that the jealousy of Leontes had not 
the slightest foundation in truth, instead of 
poisoning Polixenes, acquainted him with the 
king his master's orders, and agreed to escape 
with him out of the Sicilian dominions ; and 
Polixenes, with the assistance of Camillo, ar- 
rived safe in his own kingdom of Bohemia, 
where Camillo lived from that time in the 



THE WINTER'S TALE. 127 

king's court, and became the chief friend and 
favorite of Polixenes. 

The flight of Polixenes enraged the jealous 
Leontes still more ; he went to the queen's 
apartment where the good lady was sitting 
with her little son Mamillus, who was just be- 
ginning to tell one of his best stories to amuse 
his mother, when the king entered, and taking 
the child away, sent Hermione to prison. 

Mamillus, though but a very young child, 
loved his mother tenderly ; and when he saw 
her so dishonored, and found she was taken 
from him to be put into a prison, he took it 
deeply to heart, and drooped and pined away 
by slow degrees, losing his appetite and his 
sleep, till it was thought his grief would kill 
him. 

The king, when he had sent his queen to 
■prison, commanded Cleomenes and Dion, two 
Sicilian lords, to go to Delphos there to in- 
quire of the oracle at the temple of Apollo, if 
his queen had been unfaithful to him. 

When Hermione had been a short time in 
prison, she was brought to bed of a daughter; 
and the poor lady received much comfort from 
the sight of her pretty baby, and she said to 
it, " My poor little prisoner, I am as innocent as 
you are." 

Hermione had a kind friend in the noble- 
spirited Paulina, who was the wife of Anti- 
gonus, a Sicilian lord : and when the lady 
Paulina heard her royal mistress was brought 
to bed, she went to the prison v/here Hermi- 



12? TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

one was confined ; and she said to Emilia, 3 
lady who attended upon Hermione, " I pray 
you, Emilia, tell the good queen, if her majesty 
dare trust me with her little babe, I will carry 
it to the king its father : we do not know how 
he may soften at the sight of his innocent 
-child." " Most worthy madam," replied 
Emiha, " I will acquaint the queen with your 
noble offer ; she was wishing to-day that she 
had any friend who would venture to present 
the child to the king." " And tell her," said 
Paulina, " that I will speak boldly to Leontes 
in her defense." " May you be for ever 
blessed," said Emilia, " for your kindness to 
our gracious queen ! " Emiha then went to 
Hermione, who joyfully gave up her baby to 
the care of Paulina, for she had feared that 
no one would dare venture to present the 
child to its father. 

Paulina took the new-born infant, and forc- 
ing herself into the king's presence, notwith- 
standing her husband, fearing the king's anger, 
endeavored to prevent her, she laid the babe 
at its father's feet, and Paulina made a noble 
speech to the king in" defense of Plermione, 
and she reproached him severely for his in- 
humanity, and implored him to have mercy on 
his innocent wife and child. But Paulina's 
spirited remonstrances only aggravated 
Leontes's displeasure, and he ordered her 
husband Antigonus to take her from his pres- 
ence. 

When Paulina went away, she left the little 



THE WINTER'S TALE. 129 

baby at its father's feet, thinking, when he was 
alone with it, lie would look upon it and have 
pity on its helpless innocence. 

The good Paulina was mistaken : for no 
sooner was she gone than the merciless father 
ordered Antigonus, Paulina's husband, to take 
the child, and carry it out to sea, and leave it 
upon some desert shore to perish. 

Antigonus, unlike the good Camillo, too 
well obeyed the orders of Leontes ; for he 
immediately carried the child on ship-board, 
and put out to sea, intending to leave it on 
the first desert coast he could find. 

So firmly was the king persuaded of the guilt 
of Hermione, that he would not wait for the 
return of Cleomenes and Dion, whom he had 
sent to consult the oracle of Apollo at Delphos ; 
but before the queen was recovered from her 
lying-in, and from her grief for the loss of her 
precious baby, he had h<. v brought to a public 
trial before all the lords and nobles of his court. 
And when all the great lords, the judges, and 
all the nobility of the land, were assembled 
together to try Hermione, and that unhappy 
queen was standing as a prisoner before her 
subjects to receive their judgment, Cleomenes 
and Dion entered the assembly, and presented 
to the king the answer of the oracle sealed up ; 
and Leontes commanded the seal to be bro- 
ken, and the words of the oracle to be read 
aloud, and these were the words : — " Hermi- 
one is innocent, Polixenes blameless, Camillo a 
true subject^ Zeonks a jealous tyrant, and th^ 
9 



t3o 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



king shall live without an heir if that which is 
lost be not found." The king would give^ no 
credit to the words of tlie oracle : he said it was 
a falsehood invented by the queen's friends, 
and he desired the judge to proceed in the trial 
of the queen ; but while Leontes was speaking 
a man entered and told him that the prince Ma- 
millus, hearing his mother was to be tried for 
her life, struck with grief and shame, had 
suddenly died. 

Hermione, upon hearing of the death of this 
dear affectionate child who had lost his life in 
sorrowing for her misfortune, fainted ; and 
Leontes, pierced to the heart by the news, began 
to feel pity for his unhappy queen, and he 
ordered Paulina, and the ladies who were her 
attendants, to take her away, and use means 
for her recovery. Paulina soon returned, and 
told the king that Hermione was dead. 

When Leontes heard that the queen was 
dead, he repented of his crvielty to her; and 
now that he thought his ill-usage had broken 
Hermione's heart, he believed her innocent ; 
and he now thought the words of the oracle 
were true, as he knew " if that which was lost 
was not found," which he concluded was his 
young daughter, he should be without an heir, 
the young prince Mamillus being dead ; and 
he would give his kingdom now to recover his 
lost daughter ; and Leontes gave himself up 
to remorse, and passed many years in mourn- 
ful thoughts and repentant grief. 

The ship in which Antigonus carried the 



THE WINTER'S TALE. 13 1 

infantpri'ncess out to sea was driven bya storra 
upon the coast of Bohemia, the very kingdom 
of the good king Polixenes. Here Antigonus 
landed, and here he left the little baby. 

Antigonus never returned to Sicily to tell 
Leontes where he had left his daughter, for as 
he was going back to the ship, a bear came out 
of the woods, and tore him to pieces : a just 
punishment on him for obeying the wicked 
order of Leontes. 

The child was dressed in rich clothes and 
jewels ; for Hermione had made it very fine 
when she sent it to Leontes, and Antigonus 
had pinned a paper to its mantle, with the name 
of Pcrdita written thereon, and words obscurely 
intimating its high birth and untoward fate. 

This poor deserted baby was found by a 
shepherd. He was a humane man, and so he 
carried the little Perdita home to his wife, who 
nursed it tenderly ; but poverty tempted the 
shepherd to conceal the rich prize he had 
found ; therefore he left that part of the country 
that no one might know where he got his 
riches, and with part of Perdita's jewels he 
bought herds of sheep, and became a wealthy 
shepherd. He brought up Perdita as his own 
child, and she knew not she was any other 
than a shepherd's daughter. 

The little Perdita grew up a lovely maiden, 
and though she had no better education than 
that of a shepherd's daughter, yet so did the 
natural graces she inherited from her royal 
mother shine forth in her untutored mind, that 



1 J 2 TA LES FROM SHAKSPEARt . 

no one from her behavior would have known 
she had not been brought up in her father's 
court. 

Polixenes, the king of Bohemia, had an only 
son, whose name was Florizel. As this young 
prince was hunting near the shepherd's dwell- 
ing, he saw the old man's supposed daughter ; 
and the beauty, modesty, and queen-like de- 
portment of Perdita caused him instantly to 
fall in love with her. He soon, under the 
name of Doricles, and in the disguise of a 
private gentleman, became a constant visitor 
at the old shepherd's house. 

Florizel's frequent absence from court alarm- 
ed Polixenes ; and setting people to watch his 
son, he discovered his love for the shepherd's 
fair daughter. 

Polixenes then called for Camillo, the faith- 
ful Camillo, who had preserved his life from 
the fury of Leontes ; and desired that he 
would accompany him to the house of the 
shepherd, the supposed father of Perdita. 

Polixenes and Camillo, both in disguise, 
arrived at the old shepherd's dwelling while 
they were celebrating the feast of sheep-shear- 
ing : and though they were strangers, yet at 
the sheep-shearing every guest being made 
welcome, they were invited to walk in, and join 
in the general festivity. 

Nothing but mirth and jollity was going 
forward. Tables were spread, and great prep- 
arations were making for the rustic feast. 
Some lads and lasses were dancing on th« 



A WINTER'S TALE. 133 

green before the house, while othiers of the 
young men were buying ribbons, gloves, and 
such toys, of a peddler at the door. 

While this busy scene was going forward, 
Florizel and Perdita sat quietly in a retired 
corner, seemingly more pleased with the con- 
versation of each other than desirous of engag- 
ing in the sports and silly arausmouts of those 
around them. ^^ 

The king was so disguised that it was im- 
possible his son could know him ; he therefore 
advanced near enough to hear tlie conversa- 
tion. The simple yet elegant manner in which 
Perdita conversed with his son did not a little 
surprise Polixenes : he said to Camillo, "This 
is the prettiest low-born lass I ever saw ; 
nothing she does or says but looks like some- 
thing greater than herself, too noble for this 
place." 

Camillo replied, " Indeed she is the very 
queen of curds and cream." 

" Pray, my good friend," said the king to 
the old shepherd, " what fair swain is that 
talking with your daughter ? " " They call him 
Doricles," replied the shepherd. " He says 
he loves my daughter ; and to speak truth, 
there is- not a kiss to choose which loves the 
other best. If young Doricles can get her, 
she shall bring him what he little dreams 
of:" meaning the remainder of Perdita's 
jewels; which, after he had bought herds of 
sheep with part of them, he had carefully 
hoarded up for her marriage portion. 



134 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARB. 

Polixenes then addressed his son. " How 
kiow, young in-an ! " said he : " your heart 
seems full of something that takes off youi 
mind from feasting. When I was young, 1 
used to load my love with presents ; but you 
have let the peddler go, and have bought your 
lass no toy." 

The young prince, who little thought he was 
talking to the king his father, replied, " Old 
sir, she prizes not such trifles ; the gifts which 
Perdita expects from me are locked up in my 
heart." Then turning to Perdita, he said to 
her, " Oh hear me, Perdita, before this ancient 
gentleman, who it seems was once himself a 
lover ; he shall hear what I profess." Florizel 
then called upon the old stranger to be a wit- 
ness to a solemn promise of marriage which he 
made to Perdita, saying to Polixenes, " I pray 
you, mark our contract." 

"Mark your divorce, young sir," said the 
king, discovering himself. Polixenes then 
reproached his son for daring to contract him 
self to this low-born maiden, calling Perdita 
*' shepherd's brat, sheep-hook," and other dis- 
respectful names ; and threatening, if ever she 
suffered his son to see her again, he would put 
her, and the old shepherd her father, to a 
cruel death. 

The king then left them in great wrath, and 
ordered Camillo to follow him with prince 
Florizel. 

When the king had departed, Perdita, whose 
royal nature was roused by Polixenes' te- 



A WINTER'S TALE. 135 

proache3,said, "Though we are all undone, I 
was not much afraid ; and once or twice I was 
about to speak, and tell him plainly that the 
.selfsame sun which shines upon his palace, 
hides not his face from our cottage, but looks 
on both alike." Then sorrowtully she said, 
" But now I am awakened from this dream, I 
will queen 'it no farther. Leave me, sir ; I 
V"'.ll go milk niy ewes, and weep." 

The kind-hearted Camillo was charmed with 
the spirit and propriety of Perdita's behavior ; 
and perceiving that the young prince was too 
deeply in love to give up his mistress at the 
command of his royal father, he thought of a 
way to befriend the lovers, and at the same 
time to execute a favorable scheme he had in 
his mind. 

Camillo had long known that Leontes, the 
king of Sicily, was become a true penitent ; 
and though Camillo was now the favored 
friend of king Polixenes, he could not help 
wishing once more to see his late royal master 
and his native home. He therefore proposed 
to Florizel and Perdita, that they should ac- 
company him to the Sicilian court, where he 
would engage Leontes should protect them, 
till, through his mediation, they could obtain 
pardon from Polixenes, and his consent to 
their marriage. 

To this proposal they joyfully agreed ; and 
Camillo, who conducted everything relative to 
their flight, allowed the old shepherd to go 
along with them. 



136 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

The snepherd took with him the remaindeT 
of Perdita's jewels, her baby clothes, and the 
paper which he had found pinned to her 
mantle. 

After a prosperous voyage, Florizel and 
Perdita, Caraillo and the old shepherd, arrived 
in safety at the court of Leontes. Leontes, 
who still mourned his dead Hermione and his 
lost child, received Camillo with great kindness, 
and gave a cordial welcome to prince Florizel. 
But Perdita, whom Florizel introduced as his 
princess, seemed to engross all Leontes' atten- 
tion : perceiving a resemblance between her 
and his dead queen Hermione, his grief broke 
out afresh, and he said, such a lovely creature 
might his own daughter have been, if h^. had 
not so cruelly destroyed her. " And then 
too," said he to Florizel, " I lost the society 
and friendship of your brave father, whom I 
now desire more than my life once again to 
look upon." 

When the old shepherd heard how much 
notice the king had taken of Perdita, and that 
he had lost a daughter, who was exposed in 
infancy, he fell to comparing the time when he 
found the little Perdita, with the manner of its 
exposure, the jewels and other tokens of its 
high birth ; from all which it was impossible 
for him not to conclude, that Perdita and the 
king's lost daughter were the same. 

Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the faith- 
ful Paulina, were present when the old shep- 
herd related to the king the manner in which 



A WINTER'S TALE, 1 37 

he had found the child, and also the circum- 
stance of Antigonus' death, he having seen 
the bear seize upon him. He showed the rich 
mantle in which Paulina remembered Her- 
mione had wrapped the child; and he pro- 
duced a jewel which she remembered Her- 
mione had tied about Perdita's neck ; and he 
gave up the paper which PauUna knew to be 
the writing of her husband ; it could not be 
doubted that Perdita was Leontes' own daugh- 
ter : but oh, the noble struggles of Pauhna, 
between sorrow for- her husband's death, and 
joy that the oracle was fulfilled, in the king's 
heir, his long-lost daughter, being found! 
When Leontes heard that Perdita was his 
daughter, the great sorrow that he felt that 
Hermione was not living to behold her child, 
made him that he could say nothing for a long 
time, but, " O thy mother, thy mother ! " 

Paulina interrupted this joyful yet distress- 
ful scene, with saying to Leont^, that she had 
a statue, newly finished by that rare Italian 
master, Julio Romano, which was such a per- 
fect resemblance of the queen, that would his 
majesty be pleased to go to her house and 
look upon it, he would almost be ready to 
think It was Hermione herself. Thither then 
they all went ; the king anxious to see the 
semblance of his Hermione, and Perdita long- 
ing to behold what the mother she never saw 
did look like. 

When Paulina drew back the curtain which 
concealed this famous statue, so perfectly did 



ijS TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

it resemble llermione, that all the king's sor- 
row was renewed at the sight : for a long time 
he had no power to speak or move. 

'' I like your silence, my liege," said Paulina ; 
** it the more shows your wonder. Is not this 
statue very like your queen ? " 

At length the king said, " O, thus she stood, 
even with such majesty, when I first wooed her. 
But yet, Paulina, Hermione was not so aged 
as this statue looks." Paulina replied, " So 
much the more the carver's excellence, who 
has made the statue as Hermione would have 
looked had she been living now. But let me 
draw the curtain, sire, lest presently you think 
it moves." 

The king then said, " Do not draw the cur- 
tain ! Would I were dead! See, Camillo, 
would you not think it breathed? Her eye 
seems to have motion in it." " I must drav/ 
the curtain, my liege," said Paulina. " You 
are so transported, you will persuade yourself 
the statue lives." " O sweet Paulina," said 
Leontes, " make me think so twenty years to- 
gether ! Still methinks there is an air comes 
from her. What fine chisel could ever yet 
cut breath ? Let no man mock me, for I will 
kiss her." " Good my lord, forbear ! " said 
Paulina. " The ruddiness upon her lips is 
wet ; you will stain your own with oily painting. 
Shall I draw the curtain ? " " No, not these 
twenty years," said Leontes. 

Perdita, who all this time had been kneeling, 
and beholding in silent admiration the statue 



A WINTER'S TALE. 139 

of her matchless mother, said now, " And so 
long could I stay here, looking upon my dear 
mother." 

" Either forbear this transport," said Pauline 
to Leontes, " and let me draw the curtain ; or 
prepare yourself for more amazement. I can 
make the statue move indeed ; ay, and de- 
scend from off the pedestal, and take you by 
the hand. But then you will think, which I 
protest I am not, that I am assisted by some 
wicked powers." 

" What you can make her do," said the 
astonished king, " I am content to look upon. 
What you can make her speak, I am content 
to hear ; for it is as easy to make her speak as 
move." 

Paulina then ordered some slow and solemn 
music, which she had prepared for the purpose, 
to strike up ; and to the amazement of all the 
beholders, the statue came down from off the 
pedestal, and threw its arms around Leontes' 
neck. The statue then began to speak, pray- 
ing for blessings on her husband, and on her 
child, the newly-found Perdita. 

No wonder that the statue hung upon 
Leontes' neck, and blessed her husband and 
her child. No wonder ; for the statue was 
indeed Hermione herself, the real and living 
queen. 

Paulina had falsely reported to the king the 
death of Hermione, thinking that the only 
means to preserve her royal mistress's life • 
and with the good Paulina, Hermione had 



I40 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

lived ever since, never choosing Leontes should 
know she was Uving, till she heard Perdita was 
found ; for though she had long forgiven the in- 
juries which Leontes had done to herself, she 
could not pardon his cruelty to his infant 
daughter. 

His dead queen thus restored to life, his 
lost daughter found, the long-sorrowing Leontes 
could scarcely support the excess of his own 
happiness. 

Nothing but congratulations and affectionate 
speeches were heard on all sides. Now the 
delighted parents thanked prince Florizel for 
loving their lowly-seeming daughter ; and now 
they blessed the good old shepherd for preserv- 
ing their child. Greatly did Camilloand Paul- 
ina rejoice, that they had lived to see so good 
an end of all their faithful services. 

And as if nothing should be wanting to com- 
plete this strange and unlooked-for joy, king 
I'olixenes himself ilow entered the palace. 

When Polixenes first missed his son and 
Camillo, knowing that Camillo had longed 
Vv-ished to return to Sicily, he conjectured he 
should find the fugitives here ; and, following 
them with all speed, he happened to arrive 
just at this, the happiest moment of Leontes' 
life. 

Polixenes took a part in the general joy ; 
he forgave his friend Leontes the unjust jeal- 
ousy he had conceived against him, and they- 
once more loved each other with all the warmth 
of their first boyish friendship. And there was 



A WINTER'S TALE. 141 

no fear that Polixenes would now oppose his 
son's marriage with Perdita. She was no 
" sheep-hook " now, but the heiress of the 
crown of Sicily. 

Thus have we seen the patient virtues of the 
long-suffering Hermione rewarded. That ex- 
cellent lady lived many years with her Leontes 
and her Perdita. the happiest of mothers and 
of queens. 



ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 

Bertram, count of Rossilion, had newly 
come to his title and estate by the death of his 
father. The king of France loved the father 
of Bertram, and when he heard of his death 
he sent for his son to come immediately to his 
royal court in Paris ; intending, for the friend- 
ship he bore the late count, to grace young 
Bertram with his especial favor and protec- 
tion. 

Bertram was living with his mother, the 
widowed countess, when Lafeu, an old lord of 
the French court, came to conduct Bertram to 
the king. The king of France was an absolute 
monarch, and the invitation to court was in 
the form of a royal mandate, or positive com- 
mand, which no subject, of what high dignity 
soever, might disobey ; therefore though the 
.countess in parting with this dear son seemed 
a second time to bury her husband, whose loss 
she had so lately mourned, yet she dared not 
keep him a single day, but gave instant orders 
for his departure. Lafeu, who came to fetclj, 
him, tried to comfort the countess for the loss, 
of her late lord and her son's absence ; and he 
said, in a courtier's flattering manner, that the 
king was so kind a prince she would find in 
14a 



ALUS WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 143 

his majesty a husband, and that he would be 
a father to her son; meaning only, that the 
good king would befriend the fortunes ot 
Bertram. Lafeu told the countess that the 
king had fallen into a sad malady, which 
was pronounced by his physicans to be in- 
curable. The lady expressed great sorrow 
on hearing this account of the king's ill health, 
and said she wished the father of Helena (a 
young gentlewoman who was present in attend- 
ance upon her) were living, for that she doubted 
not he could have cured his majesty of his 
disease. And she told Lafeu something of the 
history of Helena, saying she was the only 
daughter of the famous physician Gerard de 
Narbon, and that he had recommended his 
daughter to her care when he was dying, so 
that, since his death, she had taken Helena 
under her protection ; then the countess praised 
the virtuous disposition and excellent qualities 
of Helena, saying she inherited these virtues 
from her worthy father. While she was speak- 
ing, Helena wept in sad and mournful silence, 
which made the countess gently reprove her 
for too much grieving for her father's death. 

Bertram now bade his mother farewell. The 
countess parted with this dear son with tears 
and many blessings, and commended him to 
*he care of Lafeu, saying, " Good my lord, ad- 
vise him, for he is an unseasoned courtier." 

Bertram's last words were spoken to Helena, 
but they were words of mere civility, wishing 
l-cr happiness ; and he concluded his short 



144 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARK. 

farewell to her with saying, " Be comfortable 
to my mother, your mistress, and make much 
of her." 

Helena had long loved Bertram, and when 
she wept in sad and mournful silence, the tears 
she shed were not for Gerard de Narbon. 
Helena loved her father, but in the present 
feeling of a deeper love, the object of which 
she was about to lose, she had forgotten the 
very form and features of her dead father, 
her imagination presenting no image to her 
mind but Bertram's. 

Helena had long loved Bertram, yet she al- 
ways remembered that he was the count of 
Rossilion, descended from the most ancient 
family in Paris. She of humble birth. Her 
parents of no note at all. His ancestors all 
noble. And therefore she looked up to the 
highborn Bertram as to her master and to her 
dear lord, and dared not form any wish but to 
live his servant, and so living to die his vassal. 
So great the distance seemed to her between 
his height of dignity and her lowly fortunes, 
that she would say, " It were all one that I 
should love a bright peculiar star, and think 
to wed it, Bertram is so far above me." 

Bertram's absence filled her eyes with tears, 
and her heart with sorrow; for though she 
loved without hope, yet it was a pretty comfort 
to her to see him every hour, and Helena would 
sit and look upon his dark eye, his arched 
brow, and the curls of his fine hair, till she 
seemed to draw his portrait on the tablet of 



ALVS WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 145 

her heart, that heart too capable of retaming 
the memory of every line in the features oi 
that loved face. 

Gerard de Narbon, when he died, left her no 
other portion than some prescriptions of rare 
and well proved virtue, which by deep study 
and long experience in medicine he had col- 
lected as sovereign and almost infallible reme- 
dies. Among the rest, there was one set down 
as an improved medicine for the disease under 
which Lafeu said the king at that time lan- 
guished ; and wdien Helena heard of the king's 
complaint she, who till now had been so hum- 
ble and so hopeless, formed an ambitious pro- 
ject in her mind to go herself to Paris, and un- 
dertake the cure of the king. But though 
Helena was the possessor of this choice pre- 
scription, it was unlikely, as the king as well 
as his physicians were of opinion that his dis- 
ease was incurable, that they would give credit 
to a poor unlearned virgin if she should offer 
to perform a cure. The firm hopes that 
Helena had of succeeding, if she might be 
permitted to make the trial, seemed more than 
even her father's skill warranted, though lie 
was the most famous physician of his time ; 
for she felt a strong faith that this good medi- 
cine was sanctified by all the luckiest stars in 
heaven to be the legacy that should advance 
her fortune, even to the high dignity of being 
count Rossilion's wife. 

Bertram had not been long gone, when the 
countess v^^as informed by her steward that he 
10 



146 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

had overheard Helena talking to herself, and 
that he understood, from some words she 
uttered, she was in love with Bertram, and 
had thought of following him to Paris. The 
countess dismissed the steward with thanks, 
and desired him to tell Helena she wished to 
Fpeak with her. What she had just heard of 
Helena brought the remembrance of days long 
past into the mind of the countess ; those days 
probably when her love for Bertram's father 
first began ; and she said to herself, " Even so 
it was with me when I was young. Love is a 
thorn that belongs to the rose of youth ; for 
in the season of youth, if ever we are nature's 
children, these fauHs are ours, though then we 
think not they are faults." While the coun- 
tess was thus meditating on the loving errors 
of her own youth, Helena entered, and she 
said to her, " Helena, you know I am a mother 
to you." Helena replied, " You are my honor- 
able mistress." " You are my daughter," said 
the countess again : " I say I am your mother. 
Why do you start and look pale at my words ? " 
With looks of alarm and confused thoughts, 
fearing the countess suspected her love, Helena 
still replied, " Pardon me, madam, you are not 
my mother ; the count Rossilion cannot be 
my brother, nor I your daughter." " Yet, 
Helena," said the countess, " you might be 
my daughter-in-law ; and I am afraid that is 
what you mean to be, the words mother and 
daughter so disturb you. Helena, do you love 
my son ? " " Good madam, pardon me," said 



ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 



147 



the affrighted Helena. Again the countess 
repeated her question. " Do you love my 
son ? " " Do not you love him, madam ? " 
said Helena. The countess replied, " Give 
me not this evasive answer, Helena. Come, 
come, disclose the state of your affections, for 
your love has to the full appeared." Helena 
on her knees now owned her love, and with 
shame and terror implored the pardon of her 
noble mistress : and with words expressive of 
the sense she had of the inequality between 
their fortunes, she protested Bertram did not 
know she loved him, comparing her humble 
unaspiring love to a poor Indian, who adores 
the sun, that looks upon his worshiper, but 
knows of him no more. The countess asked 
Helena if she had not lately an intent to go to 
Paris ? Helena owned the design she had 
formed in her mind, when she heard Lafeu 
speak of the king's illness. " This was your 
motive for wishing to go to Paris," said the 
countess, " was it ? Speak truly." Helena 
honestly answered, " My lord your son made 
me think of this ; else Paris, and the medicine, 
and the king, had from the conversation of my 
thoughts been absent then." The countess 
heard the whole of this confession without 
saying a word either of approval or of blame, 
but she strictly questioned Helena as to the 
probability of the medicine being useful to the 
king. She found that it was the most prized 
by Gerard de Narbon of all he possessed, and 
that he had given it to his daughter on his 



148 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARil. 

-death-bed ; and remembering the solemn 
■promise she had made at that awful hour in 
regard to this young maid, whose destiny, and 
the life of the king himself, seemed to depend 
on the execution of a project (which though 
conceived by the fond suggestions of a loving 
maiden's thoughts, the countess knew not but 
it might be the unseen workings of Providence 
to bring to pass the recovery of the king, and 
to lay the foundation of the future fortunes of 
Gerard de Narbon's daughter), free leave she 
gave to Helena to pursue her own way, and 
generously furnished her with am.ple means 
and suitable attendants ; and Helena set out 
for Paris with the blessings of the countess, 
and her kindest wishes for her success. 

.Helena arrived at Paris, and by the assist- 
ance of her friend, the old Lord Lafeu, ob- 
tained an audience of the king. She had 
still many difficulties to encounter, for the 
king was not easily prevailed on to try the 
medicine offered him by this fair young doctor. 
But she told him she was Gerard de Narbon's 
daughter (with whose fame the king was well 
acquainted), and she offered the precious 
medicine as the darling treasure which con- 
tained the essence of all her father's long ex- 
perience and skill, and she boldly engaged to 
forfeit her life if it failed to restore his majesty 
to perfect health in the space of two days. 
The king at length consented to try it, and in 
two days' time Helena was to lose her life if 
the king did not recover ; but if she succeeded, 



ALVS WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 



14^ 



he promised to give her the choice of any man 
throughout all France (the princes only ex- 
cepted) whom she could like for a husband ; 
the choice of a husband being the fee Helena 
demanded, if she cured the king of his disease. 
Helena did not deceive herself in the hope 
she conceived of the efficacy of her father's 
medicine. Before two days were at an end, 
the king was restored to perfect health, and 
he assembled all the young noblemen of his 
court together, in order to confer the promised 
reward of a husband on his fair physician j 
and he desired Helena to look round on this 
youthful parcel of noble bachelors, and choose 
her husband. Helena was not slow to make 
her choice, for among these young lords she 
saw the count Rossilion, and turning to Ber- 
tram she said, " This is the man. I dare not 
say, my lord, I take you, but I give me and 
my service ever whilst I live, into your guiding 
power." " Why then," said the king, "young 
Bertram take her ; she is your wife." Ber- 
tram did not hesitate to declare his dislike to 
this present of the king's of the self-offered 
Helena, who, he said, was a poor physician's 
daughter, bred at his father's charge, and now 
living a dependent on his mother's bounty. 
Helena heard him speak these words of re- 
jection and of scorn, and she said to the king, 
" That you are well, my lord, I am glad. Let 
the rest go." But the king would not suffer 
his royal command to be so slighted ; for the 
power of bestowing their nobles in marriage 



150 TALES FROM SHAKSPEAR 

was one of the many privileges of the kings 
of France ; and that same day Bertram was 
married to Helena, a forced and uneasy mar- 
riage to Bertram, and of no promising hope to 
the poor lady, who, though she gained the 
noble husband she had hazarded her life to 
obtain, seemed to have won but a splendid 
blank, her husband's love not being a gift in 
the power of the king of France to bestow. 

Helena was no sooner married, than she 
was desired by Bertram to apply to the king 
for him for leave of absence from court ; and 
when she brought him the king's permission for 
his departure, Bertram told her that as he was 
not prepared for this sudden marriage, it had 
much unsettled him, and therefore she must 
not wonder at the course he should pursue. 
If Helena wondered not, she grieved when 
she found it was his intention to leave her. 
He ordered her to go home to his mother. 
When Helena heard this unkind command, 
she replied, " Sir, I can say nothing to this, 
but that I am your most obedient servant 
and shall ever with true observance seek to 
eke out that desert, wherein my homely stars 
have failed to equal my great fortunes." But 
this humble speech of Helena's did not at all 
move the haughty Bertram to pity his gentle 
wife, and he parted from her without the 
common civility of a kind farewell. 

Back to the countess then Helena returnedo 
She had accomplished the purport of her 
journey, she had preserved the life of tb« 



ALUS WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 151 

king, and she had wedded her heart's dear 
lord, the count Rossilion ; but she returned 
back a dejected lady to her noble mother-in- 
law, and as soon as she entered the house she 
received a letter from Bertram which almost 
broke her heart. 

The good countess received her with a cordial 
welcome, 'as if she had been her son's own 
choice, and a lady of high degree, and she 
spoke kind words, to comfort her for the unkind 
neglect of Bertram in sending his wife home 
on her bridal day alone. But this gracious 
reception failed to cheer the sad mind of Hel- 
ena, and she said, " Madam, my lord is gone, 
forever gone." She then read these words 
out of Bertram's letter : When you can get the 
ring from my finger whic/i never shall come off, 
then call vie husband, hut in such a Then I write 
a Never. " This is a dreadful sentence," said 
Helena. The countess begged her to have 
patience, and said, now Bertram was gone, she 
should be her child, and that she deserved a 
lord that twenty such rude boys as Bertram 
might tend upon, and hourly call her mistress. 
But in vain by respectful condescension and 
kind flattery this matchless mother tried to 
scothe the sorrows of her daughter-in-law. 
Helena still kept her eyes fixed upon the letter 
and cried out in an agony of grief, Till I have 
no zvife, T have fiothing in France. The coun- 
tess asked her if she found those words in the 
letter ? " Yes, madam," was all poor Helena 
could answer. 



15.2 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

The next morning Helena was missing. She 
left a letter to be delivered to the countess 
after she was gone, to acquaint her with the 
reason of her sudden absence ; in this letter 
she informed her that she was so much grieved 
at having driven Bertram from his native 
country and his home, that, to atone for her 
offence, she had undertaken a pilgrimage to 
the shrine of St. Jaques le Grand, and con- 
cluded with requesting the countess to inform 
her son, that the wife he so hated had left his 
house forever. 

Bertram, when he left Paris, went to Flor- 
ence, and there became an officer in the Duke 
of Florence's army, and after a successful war, 
in which he distinguished himself by many 
brave actions, Bertram received letters from 
his mother, contn.ining the acceptable tidings 
that Helena would no more disturb him ; and 
he was preparing to return home when Helena 
herself, clad in pilgrim's weeds, arrived at the 
city of Florence. 

Florence was a city through which the pil^ 
grims used to pass on their way to St. Jaques 
le Grand ; and when Helena arrived at this 
city, she heard that a hospitable widow dwelt 
there, who used to receive into her house the 
3jmale pilgrims that were going to visit the 
shrine of that saint, giving them lodging and 
kind entertainment. To this good lady there^ 
fore Helena went, and the widow gave her a 
courteous welcome, and invited her to see 
whatever was curious in that famous city, and 



ALUS WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 153 

told her that if she would Uke to see the duke's 
army, she would take her where she might 
have a full view of it. " And you will see a 
countryman of yours," said the vv^idow ; " his 
name is count Rossilion, who has done worthy 
service in the duke's wars." Helena wanted 
no second invitation, when she found Bertram 
was to make a part of the show. She accom- 
panied her hostess ; and a sad and mournful 
pleasure it was to her to look once more upon 
her dear husband's face. " Is he not a hand- 
some man ? " said the widow. " I like him 
weU," replied Helena with great truth. All 
the way they walked, the talkative widow's 
discourse was all of Bertram ; she told Helena 
the story of Bertram's marriage, and how he 
had deserted the poor lady his wife, and en- 
tered into ihe duke's army to avoid living with 
her. To this account of her own misfortunes 
Helena patiently listened, and when it was 
ended, the history of Bertram was not yet 
done, for then the widow began another tale 
every word of which sank deep into the mind 
of Helena ; for the story she now told was of 
Bertram's love for her daughter. 

Though Bertram did not' like the marriage 
forced on him by the king, it seems he was 
not insensible to love, for since he had been, 
stationed with the army at Florence, he had 
fallen in iove with Diana, a fair young gentle- 
woman, the daughter of this widow who was 
Helena's hostess ; and every night, with music 
of all sores, and songs composed in praise of 



154 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Diana's beauty, he would come under hei 
window and solicit her love ; and all his suit 
to her was, that she would permit him to visit 
her by stealth after the family were retired to 
rest ; but Diana would by no means be per- 
suaded to grant this improper request, nor give 
any encouragement to his suit, knowing him 
to be a married man ; for Diana had been 
brought up under the counsels of a prudent 
mother, who though she was now in reduced 
circumstances, was well-born, and descended 
from the noble family of the Capulets. 

All this the good lady related to Helena, 
highly praising the virtuous principles of her 
discreet daughter, which she said were entirely 
owing to the excellent education and good ad- 
vice she had given her ; and she farther said, that 
Bertram had bee ri particularly importunate 
with Diana to admit him to the visit he so 
much desired that night, because he was going 
to leave Florence early next morning. 

Though it grieved Helena to hear of Ber- 
tram's love for the widow's daughter, yet from 
this story the ardent mind of Helena conceived 
a project (nothing discouraged at the ill success 
of her former one) to recover her truant lord. 
She disclosed to the widow that she was 
Helena, the deserted wife of Bertram, and 
requested that her kind hostess and her 
daughter would suffer this visit from Bertram 
to take place, and allow her to pass herself 
upon Bertram for Diana ; telling them, her chief 
motive for desiring to have this secret meeting 



ALVS WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 155 

'Vith her husband, was to get a ring from him, 
which he had said, if ever she was in posses- 
won of, he would acknowledge her as his wife. 

Tlie widow and her daugliter promised to 
inssist her in this affair, partly moved by pity 
for this unhappy forsaken wife, and partly won 
over to her interest by the promises of reward 
which Helena made them, giving them a purse 
of money in earnest of her future favor. Ir> 
the course of that day Helena caused informa- 
tion' to be sent to Bertram that she was dead; 
hoping tliat when he thought himself free to 
make a second choice by the news of hei 
death, he would offer marriage to her in her 
feigned character of Diana. And if she could 
obtain the ring and this promise too. she 
doubted not she should make some future good 
come of it. 

In the evening, after it was dark, Bertram 
was admitted into Diana's chamber, and Hel- 
ena was there ready to receive him. The 
flattering compliments and love-discourse he 
addressed to Helena were precious sounds to 
her, though she knew they were meant for 
Diana, and Bertram was so well pleased with 
her, that he made her a solemn promise to be 
her husband, and to love her forever ; which 
she 'hoped would be prophetic of a real 
affection, when he should know it was his own 
wife, the despised Helena, whose conversation 
had so delighted him. 

Bertram never knew how sensible a lady 
Helena was,-else perhaps he would not hay© 



156 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

been so regardless of her ; and seeing hel 
every day, he had entirely overlooked her 
beauty ; a face we are accustomed to see con- 
stantly, losing the effect which is caused by the 
first sight either of beauty or of plainness ; and 
of her understanding it was impossible he 
should judge, because she felt such reverence, 
mixed with her love for him, that she was 
always silent in his presence ; but now that 
her future fate, and the happy ending of all 
her love-projects, seemed to depend on her 
leaving a favorable impression on the mind of 
Bertram from this night's interview, she exerted 
all her wit to please him ; and the simple 
graces of her lively conversation and the en- 
dearing sweetness of her manner so charmed 
Bertram, that he vowed she should be his wife. 
Helena begged the ring from off his finger as 
a token of his regard, and he gave it to her ; 
and in return for this ring, which it was of 
such importance to her to possess, she gave 
him another ring, which was one the king had 
made her a present of. Before it was light in 
the morning, she sent Bertram away ; and he 
immediately set out on his journey towards 
his mother's house. 

Helena prevailed on the widow and Diana 
to accompany her to Paris, their farther assist- 
ance being necessary to the full accomplish- 
ment of the plan she had formed. When they 
arrived there, they found the king was gone 
upon a visit to the countess of Rossilion, and 



ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 157 

Helena followed the king with all the speed 
she could make. 

The king was still in perfect health, and his 
gratitude to her who had been the means of 
his recovery was so lively in his mind, that the 
moment he saw the countess of Rossilion he 
began to talk of Helena, calling her a precious 
jewel that was lost by the folly of her son ; but 
seeing the subject distressed the countess, who 
sincerely lamented the death of Helena, he 
said, " My good lady, I have forgiven and for- 
gotten all." But the good-natured old Lafeu, 
■who was present, and could not bear that the 
memory of his favorite Helena should be so 
lightly passed over, said, " This I must say, 
the young lord did great offence to his majesty, 
his mother, and his lady ; but to himself he did 
the greatest wrong of all, for he. has lost a 
wife whose beauty astonished all eyes, whose 
words took all ears captive, whose deep per- 
fection made all hearts wish to serve her." 
The king said, " Praising what is lost makes the 
remembrance dear. Well— call him hither ; " 
meaning Bertram, who now presented himself 
before the king : and, on his expressing deep 
sorrow for the injuries he had done to Helena, 
the king, for his dead father's and his admira- 
ble mother's sake, pardoned him and restored 
him once more to his favor. But the gracious 
countenance of the king was soon changed 
towards him, for he perceived that Bertram 
wore the very ring upon his finger which he had 
given to Helena ; and he well remembered that 



158 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARR 

Helena had called all the saints in heaven to 
witness she would never part with that ring^ 
unless she sent it to the king himself upon 
some great disaster befalling her; an(i 
Bertram, on the king's questioning him hovif 
he came by the ring, told an improbable story 
of a lady throwing it to him out of a window, 
and denied ever having seen Helena since the 
day of their marriage. The king, knowing 
Bertram's dislike to his wife, feared he had de- 
stroyed her ; and he ordered his guards to seize 
Bertram, saying, " I am wrapped in dismal 
thinking, for I fear the life of Helena was 
foully snatched." At this moment Diana and 
her mother entered, and presented a petition 
to the king, wherein they begged his majesty 
to exert his royal power to compel Bertram to 
marry Diana, he having made her a solemn 
promise of marriage. Bertram, fearing the 
king's anger, denied he had made any such 
promise ; and then Diana produced the ring 
(which Helena had put into her hands) to 
confirm the truth of her words ; and she said 
that she had given Bertram the ring he then 
wore, in exchange for that, at the time he 
vowed to marry her. On hearing this the king 
ordered the guards to seize her also ; and hex 
account of the ring differing from Bertram'j 
the king's suspicions were confirmed, and h>s 
said, if they did not confess how they cams 
by this ring of Helena's, they should be both 
put to death. Diana requested hermothe; 
might be permitted to fetch the 'jewe]<ji- ...' 



ALUS WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 159 

whom she bought the ring, which, being 
granted, the widow went out, and presently 
returned leading in Helena herself. 

The good countess, who in silent grief had 
beheld her son's danger, and had even dreaded 
that the suspicion of his having destro3'ed his 
wife might possibly be true, finding her dear 
Helena, whom she loved with even a maternal 
affection, was still living, felt a delight she was 
hardly able to support ; and the king, scarce 
believing for joy that it was Helena, said, " Is 
this indeed the wife of Bertram that I see?" 
Helena, feeling herself yet an unacknowledged 
wife, replied, " No, my good lord, it is but the 
shadow of a wife you see, the name and not the 
thing." Bertram cried out, " Both, both ! O 
pardon ! " *' O my lord," said Helena, " when 
I personated this fair maid, I found you 
wondrous kind; and look, here is your 
letter ! " reading to him in a joyful tone those 
words which she had once repeated so sorrow- 
fully, When from viy finger you can get ihh 
ring — " This is none, it was to me you gave 
the ring. Will you be mine, now you are 
doubly won ? " Bertram replied, " If you can 
make it plain that you were the lady I talked 
with that night, I will love you dearly, ever, ever 
dearly." This was no difficult task, for the 
widow and Diana came with Helena purposely 
to prove this fact ; and the king was so well 
pleased with Diana, for the friendly assistance 
she had rendered the dear lady he so truly 
valued for the service she had done him, that 



l5o TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

he promised her also a noble husband: Hel« 
ena's history g^iving him a hint, that it was a 
suitable reward for kings to bestow upon fair 
ladies when they perform notable services. 

Thus Helena at last found that her father's 
legacy was indeed sanctified by the luckiest 
stars in heaven; for she was now the beloved 
wife of her dear Bertram, the daughter-in- 
law of her noble mistress, and herself the 
countess of Rossilion. 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 

There lived in the city of Verona two 
young gentlemen, whose names were Valentine 
and Protheus, between whom a firm and unin- 
terrupted friendship had long subsisted. They 
pursued their studies together, and their hours 
of leisure were always passed in each other's 
company, except when Protheus visited a lad) 
lie was in love with ; and these visits to his 
mistress, and this passion of Protheus for the 
fair Julia, were the only topics on which these 
two friends disagreed : for Valentine, not 
being himself a lover, was sometimes a little 
weary of hearing his friend forever talking of 
his Julia, and then he would laugh at Protheus, 
and in pleasant terms ridicule the passion of 
love, and declare that no such idle fancies 
should ever enter his head, greatly preferring 
(as he said) the free and happy life that he 
led, to the anxious hopes and fears of the 
lover Protheus. 

One morning Valentine came to Protheus 
to tell him that they must for a time be sepa- 
rated, for that he was going to Milan. Pro- 
theus, unwilling to part with his friend, used 
many arguments to prevail upon Valentine 
not to leave him ; but Valentine said, " Cease 
to persuade me, my loving Protheus. I wilJ 
It i6i 



t62 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

not, like a sluggard, wear out my youth in 
idteness at home. Home-keeping youths have 
ever homely wits. If your affection were not 
chained to the sweet glances of your honored 
Julia, I would entreat you to accompany me, 
to see the wonders of the world abroad , but 
since you are a lover, love on still, and may 
your love be prosperous ! " 

They parted with mutual expressions of 
unalterable friendship. " Sweet Valentine, 
adieu 1 " said Protheus ; " think on me, when 
you see some rare object worthy of notice in 
your travels, and wish me partaker of your 
happiness." 

Valentine began his journey that same day 
towards Milan : and when his friend had left 
him, Protheus sat down to write a letter to 
Julia, which he gave to her maid Lucetta to 
deliver to her mistress. 

Julia loved Protheus as well as he did her, 
but she was a lady of a noble spirit, and she 
thought it did not become her maiden dignity 
too easily to be won ; therefore she affected 
to be insensible of his passion, and gave him 
much uneasiness in the prosecution of his suit. 

And when, Lucetta offered the letter to Julia 
she would not receive it, and chid her maid for 
taking letters from Protheus, and ordered her 
to leave the room. But she so much wished 
to see what was written in the letter, that she 
soon called in her maid again, and when Lu- 
cetta returned, she said, '* What o'clock is it ? '* 
Lucetta, who knew her n^istress more desired 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 163 

to see the letter than to know the time of day, 
without answering her question, again offered 
tlie rejected letter. Julia, angry that her maid 
should thus take the liberty of seeming to know 
what she really wanted, tore the letter in pieces, 
and threw it on the floor, ordering her maid 
once more out of the room. As Lucetta was 
retiring, she stooped to pick up the fragments 
of the torn letter ; but Julia, who meant not so 
to part with them, said in pretended anger, 
" Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie ; you 
would be fingering them to anger me." 

Julia then began to piece together as well 
as she could the torn fragments. She first 
made out these words, " Love-wounded Pro- 
theus;" and lamenting over these and such 
like loving words, which she made out though 
they Vifere all torn asunder, or, she said, 
wounded (th.= expression " Love-wounded Pro- 
theus," giving laer that idea), she talked to 
these kind words, telling them she would lodge 
them in her bosom as in a bed, till their 
wounds were healed, and that she would kiss 
each several piece, to make amends. 

In this manner she went on talking with a 
pretty lady-like childishness, till, finding 4ier- 
self unable to make out the whole, and vexed 
at her own ingratitude in destroying such 
sweet and loving words, as she called them, 
she wrote a much kinder letter to Protheus 
than she had ever done before. 

Protheus was greatly delighted at receiving 
t his favorableanswer to his letter ; and while 



1 64 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

he was reading it, he exclaimed, " Sweet love, 
sweet lines, sweet life ! " In the midst of hia 
raptures he was interrupted by his father. 
" How now ! " said the old gentleman ; " what 
letter are you reading there ? " 

•* My lord," replied Protheus, " it is a letter 
from my friend Valentine, at Milan." 

" Lend me the letter," said his father ; " let 
me see what news." 

" There are no news, my lord," said Pro- 
theus, greatly alarmed, " but that he writes 
how well beloved he is of the duke of Milan, 
who daily graces him with favors ; and how he 
wishes me with him, the partner of his fortune." 

*' And how stand you affected to his wish "i '* 
asked the father. 

*' As one relying on your lordshipJs will, 
and not depending on his friendly wish," said 
Protheus, 

Now it had happened that Protheus' father 
had just been talking with a friend on this 
very subject : his friend had said, he wondered 
his lordship suffered his son to spend his 
youth at home, while most men were seiiding 
their sons to seek preferment abroad : " some " 
said" he, " to tli e wars, to try their fortunes 
there, and some to discover islands far away, 
.and some to study in foreign universities ; and 
there is his companion Valentine, he is gone 
to the Duke of Milan's court. Your son is fit 
for any of these things, and it will be a great 
disadvantage to him in his riper age not tg 
have traveled in his youth." 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 165 

Protheus' father thought the advice of hi& 
friend was very good, and upon Protheus tell- 
ing him that Valentine " wished him with him, 
the partner of his fortune," he at once deter- 
mined to send his son to Milan ; and without 
giving Protheus any reason for this sudden 
resolution, it being the usual habit of this 
positive old gentleman to command his son, 
not reason with him, he said, " My will is the 
same as Valentine's wish : " and seeing his 
son look astonished, he added, " Look not 
amazed, that I so suddenly resolve you shall 
spend some timS in the duke of Milan's court ; 
for what I will, I will, and there is an end. 
To-morrow be in readiness to go. Make no 
excuses ; for I am peremptory." 

Protheus knew it was of no use to make ob- 
jections to his father, who never suffered him 
to dispute his will ; and he blamed himself for 
telling his father an untruth about Julia's letter, 
which had brought upon him the sad necessity 
of leaving her. 

Now that Julia found she was going to lose 
Protheus for so long a time, she no longer pre- 
tended indifference ; and they bade each other 
a mournful farewell, with many vows of love 
and constancy. Protheus and Julia exchanged 
rings, which they both promised to keep for- 
ever in remembrance of each other ; and thus, 
taking a sorrowful leave, Protheus set out on 
his journey to Milan, the abode of his friend 
Valentine. 

Valentine was in reality what Protheus had 



1 66 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

feigned to his father, in higli favor with the 
duke of Milan ; and another event had hap- 
pened to him of which Protheus did not even 
ilream, for Valentine had given up the freedom 
ot which he used so much to boast, and was 
become as passionate a lover as Protheus. 

She who had wrought this wondrous change 
tn Valentine was the lady Silvia, daughter of 
the duke of Milan, and she also loved him*, 
but they concealed their love from the duke, 
because although he showed much kindness 
for Valentine, and invited him every day to his 
palace, yet he designed to marry his daughter 
to a young courtier whose name was Thurio. 
Silvia despised this Thurio, for he had none 
of the fine sense and excellent qualities of 
Valentine. 

These two rivals, Thurio and Valentine, 
were one day on a visit to Silvia, and Valentine 
was entertaining Silvia with turning everything 
Thurio said into ridicule, when the duke him- 
self entered the room, and told Valentine the 
welcome news of his friend Protheus' arrival. 
Valentine said, " If I had wished a thing, it 
would have been to have seen him here ! " and 
then he highly praised Protheus to the 4uke, 
saying, " My lord, though I have been a truant 
of my time, yet hath my friend made use and 
fair advantage of his days, and is complete in 
person as in mind, in all good grace to grace 
a gentleman." 

" Welcome him then according to his worth," 
said the duke : " Silvia, I speak to you, and 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. s6j 

you, sir Thurio ; for Valentine, I need noi bid 
him do so." They were here interrupted by 
the entrance of Protheus, and Valentine intro- 
duced him to Silvia, saying, " Sweet lady, 
entertain him to be my fellow servant to your 
ladyship." 

When 7''alentine and Protheus had ended 
their visit, and were alone together, Valentine 
said, " Now tell me how all does from whence 
you came ? How does your lady, and how 
thrives your love ? " Protheus replied, " My 
tales of love used to weary you. I know you 
joy not in a love discourse." 

"Ay, Protheus," returned Valentine, "but 
that life is altered now. I have done penance 
for condemning love. For in revenge of my 
contempt of Love, Love has chased sleep 
from my enthralled eyes. O gentle Protheus, 
Love is a mighty lord, and hath so humbled 
me, that I confess there is no woe like his cor- 
rection, nor no such joy on earth as in his 
service. I now like no discourse except it be 
of love. Now I can break my fast, dine, sup, 
and sleep, upon the very name of love." 

This acknowledgment of the change which 
love had made in the disposition of Valentine 
was a great triumph to his friend Protheus. 
But " friend," Protheus must be called no 
longer, for the same all powerful deity Love, ol 
whom they were speaking (yea, even while they 
were talking of the change he had made in 
Valentine), was working in the heart of Pro 
theus ; and he, who had till this time been a 



i;68 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

pattern of true love and perfect friendship, 
was' now, in one short interview with Silvia, 
become a false friend and a faithless lover ; for 
at the first sight of Silvia, all his love for Julia 
vanished away like a dream, nor did his long 
friendship for Valentine deter him from en- 
deavoring to supplant him in her affection ; 
and although, as it will always be, when people 
whose dispositions are naturally good become 
unjust, he had many scruples before he deter- 
mined to forsake Julia, and become the rival 
of Valentine : yet he at length overcame his 
sense of duty, and yielded himself up, almost 
without remorse, to his new unhappy passion. 

Valentine imparted to him in confidence the 
whole history of his love, and how carefully 
they had concealed it from the duke her father, 
and told him, that, despairing of ever being 
able to obtain his consent, he had prevailed 
upon Silvia to leave her father's palace that 
night, and go with him to Mantua ; then he 
showed Protheus a ladder of ropes, by help 
of which he meant to assist Silvia to get out 
of one of the windows of the palace after it 
was dark. 

Upon hearing this faithful recital of his 
friend's dearest secrets, it is hardly possible to 
be believed, but so it was, that Protheus re- 
solved to go to the duke and disclose the whole 
to him. 

This false friend began his tale with many 
artful speeches to the duke ; such as, that by 
the laws of friendship he ought to conceal 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 169 

what he was going to reveal, but that the 
gracious favor the dulce had shown him, and 
the duty he owed his grace, urged him to tell 
that which else no worldly good should draw 
from him. He then told all he had heard 
from Valentine, not omitting the ladder of 
ropes, and the manner in which Valentine 
meant to conceal them under a long cloak. 

The duke thought Protheus quite a miracle 
of integrity, in that he preferred telling his 
friend's intention rather than he would con> 
ccal an unjust action ; highly commended him, 
and promised him not to let Valentine know 
from whom he had learnt this intelligence, 
but by some artifice to make Valentine betray 
the secret himself. For this purpose the duke 
awaited the coming of Valentine in the even- 
ing, whom he soon saw hurrying towards the 
palace, and he perceived something was 
wrapped within his cloak, which he concluded 
was the rope-ladder. 

The duke upon this stopped him, saying. 
" Whither away so fast Valentine?" "May 
it please your grace," said Valentine, " there is 
a messenger that stays to bear my letters to 
my friends, and I am going to deliver them." 
Now this falsehood of Valentine's had no 
better success in the event than the untruth 
Protheus told his father. 

" Be they of much import ?" said the duke. 
" No more, my lord," said Valentine, " than 
to tell my father I am well and happy at your 
grace's court." 



I70 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



"Nay, then," said the duke, "no matteVj 
stay with me a while. I wish your counsel 
about some affairs that concern me nearly.'' 
He then told Valentine an artful story, as a 
prelude to draw his secret from him, saying 
that Valentine knew he wished to match his 
daughter with Thurio, but that she was stub- 
born and disobedient to his commands, 
"neither regarding, " said he, ' 'that she is my 
child, nor fearing me as if I were her father. 
And I may say to thee, this pride of here has 
drawn my love from her. I had thought my 
age should have been cherished by her child 
like duty. I now am resolved to take a wife, 
and turn her out to whosoever v/ill take her 
in. Let her beauty be her wedding dower, 
for me and my possession she esteems not." 

Valentine, wondering where all this would 
end, made answer, "And what would your 
grace have me to do in all this?" 

"Why," said the duke, "the lady I wir-h to 
marry is nice and coy, and does not n7uch 
esteem my aged eloquence. Besides, the 
fashion of courtship is changed since I was 
young: now I would Avillingly have you to be 
my tutor to instruct me how I am to woo." 

"Valentine gave him a general idea of the- 
modes of courtship then practiced by young 
men, when they wished to win a fair lady's 
love, such as presents, frequent visits, and 
the like. 

The duke replied to this, that the lady did 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. \»iz 

refuse a present which he sent her, and thai 
ijhe was so strictly kept by her father, that no 
man might liave access to her by day. 

"Why, then," said Valentine, "you must 
visit her by night." 

" But at night," said the artful duke, who 
was now coming to the drift of his discourse, 
" her doors are fast locked." 

Valentine then unfortunately proposed, that 
the duke should get into the lady's chamber at 
night by means of a ladder of ropes, saying, 
he would procure him one fitting for that pur- 
pose ; and in conclusion advised him to con- 
ceal this ladder of ropes under such a cloak as 
that which he now wore. " Lend me your 
cloak," said the duke, who had feigned this 
^bng story on purpose to have a pretense to 
get off the cloak : so, upon saying these words, 
he caught hold of Valentine's cloak, and throw- 
ing it back, he discovered not only the ladder 
'of ropes, but also a letter of Silvia's, which he 
Instantly opened and read ; and this letter con- 
,*^ained a full account of their intended elope- 
inent. The duke, after upbraiding Valentine 
for his ingratitude in thus returning the favor 
lie had shown him, by endeavoring to steal 
away his daughter, banished him from the 
court and city of Milan forever; and Valen- 
tine was forced to depart that night without 
even seeing Silvia. 

While Protheus at Milan was thus injuring 
Valentine, Julia at Verona was regretting the 
absence o£ Protheus ; and her regard for him 



^2 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

at last so far overcame her sense of propriety, 
that she resolved to leave Verona and seek 
her lover at Milan ; and to secure herself £rom 
danger on the road, she dressed her maid 
Lucetta and herself in men's clothes, and they 
set out in this disguise, and arrived at Milan, 
soon after Valentine was banished from that 
city through the treachery of Protheus. 

Julia entered Milan about noon, and she 
took up her abode at an inn ; and her thoughts 
being a'l on iier dear Protheus, she entered 
into conversation with the innkeeper, or host, 
as he was called, thinking by that means to 
learn some news of Protheus. 

The host was greatly pleased that this hand* 
some young gentleman (as he took her to be), 
who, from his appearance, he concluded was 
of high rank, spoke so familiarly to him ; and 
being a good-natured man, he was sorry to 
see him look so melancholy ; and to amuse his 
young guest he offered to' take him to hear 
some fine music, with which he said, a gentle 
man that evening was going to serenade his 
mistress. 

The reason Julia looked so very melancholy 
was, that she d'd not well know what Protheus 
would think of the 'mprudent step she had 
taken ; for she knew he had loved her for her 
noble maiden pride and dignity of character, 
and she feared she should lower herself in his 
esteem : and this it v/as that made her wear 
a sad and thoughtful countenance. 

She gladly accepted the offer of the host to 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 173 

go with him, and hear the music ; for she 
secretly hoped she might meet Protheus by the 
way. 

But when she came to the palace whither the 
host conducted her, a very different effect was 
produced to what the kind host intended ; for 
there, to her heart's sorrow, she beheld hei 
lover, the inconstant Protheus, serenading the 
lady Silvia with music, and addressing dis- 
course of love and admiration to her. And 
Julia overheard Silvia from a window talk 
with Protheus, and reproach him for forsak- 
ing his own true lady, and for his ingratitude 
to his friend Valentine : and then Silvia left 
the window not choosing to listen to his music 
and his fine speeches; for she was a faithful 
lady to her banished Valentine, and abhorred 
the ungenerous conduct of his false friend 
Protheus. 

Though Julia was in despairat what she had 
just witnessed, yet did she still love the truant 
Protheus ; and hearing that he had lately 
parted with a servant, she contrived with the 
assistance of her host, the friendly innkeeper, 
to hire herself to Protheus as a ^jage, and 
Protheus knew not she was Julia, and he 
sent her with letters and presents to her rival 
Silvia, and he even sent by her the very ring 
she gave him as a parting gift at Verona. 

When she went to that lady with the ring, 
she was most glad to find that Sil . ia utterly 
rejected the suit of Protheus, and Julia, or 
the page Sebastian, as she was called, entered 



174 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE, 

into conversation with Silvia about Protheua 
first love, the forsaken lady Julia. She, put- 
ting in (as one may say) a good word for her- 
self, said she knew Julia ; as well she might, 
being herself the Julia of whom she spoke : tell- 
ing how fondly Julia loved her master Pro- • 
theus, and how his unkind neglect would grieve 
her ; and then she with a pretty equivocatioa 
went on ; "Julia is about my height and of my 
complexion, the color oi her eyes and hair 
the same as mine : " and indeed Julia looked %i 
most beautiful youth in her boy's attire. Silvia 
was moved to pity this lovely lady, who v>?as sa 
sadly forsaken by the man she loved ; and 
when Julia offered the ring which Protheus had 
sent, refused it, saying, " The more shame foi 
him that he sends me that ring ; I v/ill not 
take it, for I have often heard him say his Julia 
gave it to him. I love thee, gentle 3^outh, for 
pitying her, poor lady ! Here is a purse ; J 
gave it you for Julia's sake." These com* 
fortable words coming from her kind rival's 
tongue cheered the drooping heart of the dis- 
guised lady. 

But to return to the banished Valentine ; 
who scarce knew which way to bend his course, 
being unwilling to return home to his father a 
disgraced and banished man : a" he was wan- 
dering over a lonely forest not fai distant frorn 
Milan, where he had left his heart 's dear treas- 
ure, the lady Silvia, he was set upon by rob 
bers, who demanded his money. 

Valentine told them that he was a mao 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, 17*^ 

crossed by adversity, that he was going into 
banishment, and that he had no money, the 
clothes he had on being all his riches. 

The robbers, hearing that he was a distresse-d 
man, and being struck with his noble air and 
manly behavior, told him if he would live with 
them, and be their chief, or captain, they would 
put themselves under his command ; but that, 
if he refused to accept their offer, they would 
kill him. 

Valentine, who cared little what became of 
himself, said he would consent to live with 
them and be their captain, provided they did 
no outrage on women or poor passengers. 

Thus the noble Valentine became, like 
Robin Hood, of whom we read in ballads, a 
captain of robbers and outlawed banditti : and 
in this situation he was found by Silvia, and 
in this manner it came to pass. 

Silvia, to avoid a marriage with Thurio, 
whom her father insisted upon her no longer 
refusing, came at last to the resolution of fol- 
lowing Valentine to Mantua, at which place 
she had heard her lover had taken refuge ; 
but in this account she was misinformed, for 
. he still lived in the forest among the robbers, 
bearing the name of their captain, but taking 
no part in their depredations, and using the 
authority which they had imposed upon him 
in no other way than to compel them to show 
compassion to the travelers they robbed. 

Silvia contrived to effect her escape from 
her father's palace in company with a worthy 



1 7 6 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

old gentleman, whose name wasEglamour, 
whom she took along with her forprotectioi, 
on the road. She had to pass through the 
forest where Valentine and the banditti dwelt, 
and one of these robbers seized on Silvia, and 
-vould also have taken Eglamour, but he es 
caped. 

The robber who had taken Silvia, seeing the 
terror she was in, bid her not be alarmed, for 
that he was only going to carry her to a cave 
where his captain lived, and that she need not 
be afraid, for their captain had an honorable 
mind, and always showed humanity to women. 
Silvia found little comfort in hearing she was 
going to be carried as a prisoner before the 
captain of a lawless banditti. " O Valentine," 
she cried, " this I endure for thee ! " 

But as the robber was conveying her to the 
cave of his captain he was stopped by Protheus, 
who, still attended by Julia in the disguise of 
a page, having heard of the flight of Silvia, had 
traced her steps to this forest. Protheus now 
rescued her from the hands of the robber ; 
but scarce had she time to thank him for the 
service he had done her, before he began to 
distress her afresh with his lovesuit : and 
while he was rudely pressing her to consent to 
marry him, and his page (the forlorn Julia) 
was standing beside him in great anxiety ci 
mind, fearing lest the great service which Pro- 
theus had just done to Silvia should win he? 
to show him some favor, they were all strange- 
ly surprised with the sudden appearance ol 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, ijj 

Valentine, who, having heard his robbers had 
taken a lady prisoner, came to console and 
relieve her. 

Protheus was courting Silvia, and he was so 
much ashamed of being caught by his friend, 
that he was all. at once seized with penitence 
and remorse ; and he expressed such a lively 
sorrow for the injuries he had done to Valen- 
tine, that Valentine, whose nature was noble 
ana generous, even to a romantic degree, not 
only forgave and restored him to his former 
place in his friendship, but in a sudden flight 
of heroism he said, " I freely do forgive you ; 
and all the interest I have in Silvia, I give it 
up to you." Julia, who was standing beside 
hjr master as a page, hearing this strange offer, 
and fearing Protheus would not be able, with 
this new-found virtue to refuse Silvia, fainted, 
and they were all employed in recovering her ; 
else would Silvia have been offended at being 
thus made over to Protheus, though she could 
scarcely think that Valentine would long per- 
severe in this overstrained and too generous 
act of friendship. When Julia recovered from 
the fainting fit, she said, " I had forgot, my 
master ordered me to deliver this ring to 
Silvia." Protheus, looking upon the ring, saw 
that it was the one he gave to Julia, in return 
for that which he received from her, and which 
he had sent by the supposed page to Silvia. 
" How is this ? " said he, " this is Julia's ring : 
hoW came you by it, boy ? " Julia answered, 
" JuUa herself did give it me, and Julia hersell 
hath brought it hither. 



€78 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Protheus, now looking earnestly upon her, 
plainly perceived that the page Sebastian was 
no other than the lady Julia herself : and the 
proof she had given of her constancy and true 
love so wrought in him, that his love for her 
returned into his heart, and he took again his 
own dear lady, and joyfully resigned all pre 
tensions to the lady Silvia to Valentine, who 
had so well deserved her. 

Protheus and Valentine were expressing 
their happiness in their reconciliation, and 
in the love of their faithful ladies, when they 
were surprised with the sight of the duke of 
Milan and Thurio, who came there in pursuit 
of Silvia. 

Thurio first approached, and attempted to 
seize Silvia, saying, " Silvia is mine." Upon 
this Valentine said to him in a very spirited 
manner, " Thurio, keep back : if once again 
you say that Silvia is yours, you shall embrace 
your death. Here she stands, take but pos- 
session of her with a touch ! I dare you but 
to breathe upon my love." Plearing this threat, 
Thurio, who Y/as a great coward, drew back, 
and said he cared not for her, and that none 
but a fool would fight for a girl v^^ho loved him 
not. 

The duke, who was a very brave man him- 
self, said now in great anger, " The more base 
and degenerate in you to take such means for 
her as you have done, and leave her on such 
light conditions." Then turning to Valeiatine 
he said, " I do applaud your spirit, Valentine 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 179 

and think you worthy of an empress's love. 
You shall have Silvia, for you have well de- 
served her." Valentine then with great humil- 
ity kissed the duke's hand, and accepted the 
noble present which he had made him of his 
daughter with becoming thankfulness ; taking 
occasion of this joyful minute to entreat the 
good-humored duke to pardon the thieves 
with whom he had associated in the forest, as- 
suring him, that when reformed and restored 
to society, there would be found among them 
many good, and fit for great employment ; for 
the most of them had been banished, like 
Valentine, for state offenses, rather than for 
any black crimes they had been guilty of. To 
this the ready duke consented ; and now 
nothing remained but that Protheus, the false 
friend, was ordained, by way of penance for 
his love-prompted faults, to be present at the 
recital of the whole story of his loves and 
falsehoods before the duke ; and the shame of 
the recital to his awakened conscience was 
judged sufficient punishment : which being 
done, the lovers, all four, returned back to 
Milan, and their nuptials were solemnized in 
presence of the duke, with high triumphs and 
feasting. 



CYMBELINE. 

During the time of Augustus Caesar, en 
peror of Rome, there reigned in Englan^ 
(which was then called Britain) a king whose; 
name was Cymbeline. 

Cymbeline's first wife died when his three? 
children (two sons and a daughter) were very 
young. Imogen, the eldest of these children, 
was brought up in her father's court ; but by 
a strange chance the two sons of Cymbeline 
were stolen out of their nursery, when the 
eldest was but three years of age, and the 
youngest quite an infant: and Cymbeline could 
never discover what was become of them, or 
by whom they were conveyed away. 

Cymbeline was twice married ; his second 
wife was a .wicked, plotting woman, and a 
cruel step-mother to Imogen, Cymbeline's 
daughter by his first wife. 

The queen, thov'gh she hated Imogen, yet 
wished her to marry a son of her own by a 
former husband (she also having been twice 
married) : for by this means she hoped upon 
the death of Cymbeline to place the crown ot 
Britain upon the head of her son Cloten : for 
she knew that, if the king's sons were not 
found, the princess Imogen must be the king's 
i8o 



CYMBELTNE. j8i 

heir. But this design was prevented by 
Imogen herself, who married without the con- 
sent or even knowledge of her father or the 
queen. 

Posthumus (for that was the name of 
Imogen's husband) was the best scholar and 
most accomplished gentleman of that age. 
His father died fighting in the wars for Cym- 
beline, and soon after his birth his mother 
died also for grief at the loss of her husband, 

Cymbeline, pitying the helpless state of this 
orphan, took Posthumus (Cymbeline having 
given him that name, because he was born 
after his father's death) and educated him in 
his own court. 

Imogen and Posthumus were both taught 
by the same masters, and were playfellows 
from their infancy ; they loved each other ten- 
derly when they were children, and their affec- 
tion continuing to increase with their years, 
when they grew up they privately married. 

The disappointed queen soon learnt this 
secret, for she kept spies constantly in watch 
upon the actions of her daughter-in-law, and 
she immediately told the king of the marriage 
of Imogen with Posthumus. 

Nothing could exceed the wrath of Cymbe- 
line, . when he heard that his daughter had 
been so forgetful of her high dignity as to 
marry a subject. He commanded Posthumus 
to leave Britain, and banished him from his 
native country forever. 

The queen, who pretended to pity Imogen 



l82 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

for the grief she suffered at losing her husband, 
offered to procure them a private meeting 
before Posthumus set out on his journey to 
Rome, which place he had cliosen for his 
residence in his banishment : this seeming 
kindness slie showed, the better to succeed in 
her future designs in regard to her son Cloten ; 
for she meant to persuade Imogen, when her 
husband was gone, that her marriage was not 
lawful, being contracted without the consent 
of the king. 

Imogen and Posthumus took a most affec- 
tionate leave of eacli other. Imogen gave her 
husband a diamond ring which had been her 
mother's, and Posthumus promised never to 
part with the ring; and he fastened a bracelet 
on the arm of his wife, which he begged she 
would preserve with great care, as a token 
of his love ; they then bid each other farewell, 
with many vows of everlasting love and fidel- 

Imogen remained a solitary and dejected 
lady in her father's court, and Posthumus ar- 
rived at Rome, the place he had chosen for his 
banishment. 

Posthumus fell into company at Rome with 
some gay young men of different nations, who 
were talking freely of ladies ; each one praising 
the ladies of his own country, and his own 
mistress. Posthumus, who had ever his own 
dear lady in his mind, affirmed that his wife, 
the fair Imogen, was the most virtuous, wise, 
and constant lady in the world. 



CYMBELINE. 183 

One of these gentleman, whose name was 
lachimo, being offended that a lady of Britain 
should be so praised above the Roman ladies, 
his countrywomen, provoked Posthumus by 
seeming to doubt the constancy of his so highly- 
praised wife ; and, at length, after much alter- 
cation, Posthumus consented to a proposal of 
lachimo's, that he (lachimo) should go to 
Britain, and endeavor to gain the love of the 
married Imogen. They then laid a wager, 
Uiat if lachimo did not succeed in this wicked 
design, he was to forfeit a large sum of money ; 
but if he could win Imogen's favor, and pre- 
vail upon her to give him the bracelet which 
Posthumus had so earnestly desired she would 
keep as a token of his love, then the wagei 
was to terminate with Posthumus giving to 
lachimo, the ring, which was Imogen's love- 
present when she parted with her husband. 
Such firm faith had Posthumus in the fidelity 
of Imogen that he thought he ran no hazard in 
this trial of her honor. 

lachimo, on his arrival in Britain, gained ad- 
mittance, and a courteous welcome from Im- 
ogen, as a friend of her husband ; but when 
he began to make professions of love to her, 
she repulsed him with disdain, and he soon 
found that he could have no hope of succeeding 
in his dishonorable design. 

The desire lachimo had to win the wager 
made him now have recourse to a stratagem 
to impose upon Posthumus, and for this pur- 
pose he bribed some of Imogen's attendants, 



l84 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

and was by them conveyed into her bedcham- 
ber concealed in a large trunk, where he re- 
mained shut up till Imogen had retired to rest, 
and had fallen to sleep ; and then getting out 
of the trunk, he examined the chamber with 
great attention, and wrote down everything he 
saw there, and particularly noticed a mole 
which he observed upon Imogen's neck, and 
then softly unloosing the bracelet from her 
arm, which Posthumus had given to her, he re- 
tired into the chest again ; and the next day 
he set off for Rome with great expedition, and 
boasted to Posthumus that Imogen had given 
him 'the bracelet, and likewise permitted him 
to pass a night in her chamber : and in this 
manner lachimo told his false tale : " Her 
bedchamber," said he, " was hung with tapes- 
try of silk and silver, the story was the proud 
Cleopatra when she met her Anthony^ a piece of 
work most bravely wrought." 

"This is true," said Posthumus; "but this 
you might have heard spoken of without see- 
ing." 

" Then the chimney," said lachimo, " is 
south of the chamber, and the chimney-piece 
is Diana bathing ; never saw I figures livelier 
expressed." 

" This is a thing you might have likewise 
heard," said Posthumus, " for it is much talked 
of." 

lachimo as accurately described the roof of 
the chamber, and added, " I had almost forgot 
her andirons, they were two winking Cupids 



CYMBELINE. 185 

iitade of silver, each on one foot standing.'' 
tie then took out the bracelet, and said, 
"Know you this jewel, sir? She gave me 
this. She took it from her arm. I see her 
yet ; her pretty action did outsell her gift, and 
yet enriched it too. She gave it me, and 
said she prized it oncej' He last of all de- 
scribed the mole he had observed upon her 
neck. 

Posthumus, who had heard the whole of 
this artful recital in an agony of doubt, now 
broke out into the most passionate exclama- 
tions against Imogen. He delivered up the 
diamond ring to lachimo, which he had agreed 
to forfeit to him if he obtained the bracelet 
from Imogen. 

Posthumus then in a jealous rage wrote to 
Pisanio, a gentleman of Britain, who was one 
of Imogen's attendants, and had long been a 
faithful friend to Posthumus ; and after telling 
him what proof he had of his wife's disloyalty, 
he desired Pisanio would take Imogen to 
Milford Haven, a sea-port of Wales, and there 
kill her. And at the same time he wrote a 
deceitful letter to Imogen, desiring her to go 
with Pisanio, for that, finding he could live no 
longer without seeing her, though he was for- 
bidden upon pain of death to return to Britain, 
he would come to Milford Haven, at which 
place he begged she viould meet him. She, 
good unsuspecting lady, who loved her hus- 
band above all things, and desired more than 
her life to see him, hastened her departure 



J 86 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

with Pisanio, and the same night she received 
the letter she set out. 

When their journey was nearly at an end, 
Pisanio, who, though faithful to Posthumus, 
was not faithful to serve him in an evil deed, 
disclosed to Imogen the cruel order he had 
received. 

Imogen, who instead of meeting a loving 
and beloved husband, found herself doomed 
by that husband to suffer death, was afflicted 
beyond measure. 

Pisanio persuaded her to take comfort, and 
wait with patient fortitude for the time when 
Posthumus should see and repent his injustice : 
m the meantime, as she refused in her distress 
to return to her father's court, he advised her 
to dress herself in boy's clothes for more secu- 
rity in traveling ; to which advice she agreed, 
and thought in that disguise she would go over 
to Rome and see her husband, whom, though 
he had used her so barbarously, she could not 
forget to love. 

When Pisanio had provided her with her 
new apparel, he left her to her uncertain for- 
tune, being obliged to return to court : but 
before he departed he gave her a phial of 
cordial, which he said the queen had given 
him as a sovereign remedy in all disorders. 

The queen, who hated Pisanio because he 
was a friend to Imogem and Posthumus, gave 
him this phial, which she supposed contained 
poison, she having ordered her physician, to 
give her some poison, to try its effects (as sh(? 



CYMBELINE. 187 

said) upon animals : but the physician know- 
ing her malicious disposition, would not trust 
?ier with real poison, but gave her a drug 
which would do no other mischief tiian caus- 
ing a person to sleep with every appearance of 
death for a few hours. This mixture, whicli 
Pisanio thought a choice cordial, hi^ gave to 
Imogen, desiring her, if she found herself ill 
upon the road, to take it ; and so with bless- 
ings and prayers for her safety and happy de- 
liverance from her undeserved troubles, he 
left her. 

Providence strangely directed Imogen's steps 
to the dwelling of her two brothers, who had 
been stolen away in their infancy. Pellarius, 
who stole them away, was a lord in the court 
of Cymbeline, and having been falsely accused 
to the king of treason, and banished from the 
court, in revenge he stole away the two sons of 
Cymbeline, and brought them up in a forest, 
where he lived concealed in a cave. He stole 
them through revenge, but he soon loved them 
as tenderly as if they had been his own chil- 
dren, educated them carefully, and they grew 
up fine youths, their princely spirits leading 
them to bold and daring actions ; and as they 
subsisted by hunting, they were active and 
hardy, and were always pressing their supposed 
father to let them seek their fortune in the 
wars. 

At the cave where these youths dwelt, it was 
Imogen's fortune to arrive. She had lost her 
way in a large forest through which her road 



l88 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

lay to Milford Haven (from whence she meant 
to embark for Rome) : and being unable to 
find any place where she could purchase food, 
she was with weariness and hunger almost 
dying ; for it is not merely putting on a man's 
apparel that will enable a young lady, tenderly 
brought up, to bear the fatigue of wandering 
about lonely forests like a man. Seeing this 
cave, she entered, hoping to find some one 
within of whom she could procure food. She 
found the cave empty, but looking about she 
discovered some cold meat, and her hunger 
was so pressing, that she could not wait for 
an invitation, but sat down, and began to eat. 
*' Ah ! " said she, talking to herself, " I see a 
man's life is a tedious one ; how tired am I ! 
for two nights together I have made the ground 
my bed : my resolution helps me, or I should 
be sick. When Pisanio showed me Milford 
Haven from the mountain-top, how near it 
seemed ! " Then the thoughts of her husband 
and his cruel mandate came across her, and 
she said, " My dear Posthumus, thou art a . 
false one." 

The two brothers of Imogen, who had been 
hunting with their reputed father Bellarius, 
were by this time returned home. Bellarius 
had given them the names of Polidore and 
Cadwal, and they knew no better, but sup- 
posed that Bellarius was their father ; but the 
real names of these princes were Guiderius and 
Arviragus. 

Bellarius entered the cave first, and seeing 



CYMBELTNE. 189 

Imogen, stopped them, saying, " Come not in 
yet ; it eats our victuals, or I should think 
that it was a fairy." 

" What is the matter, sir ? " said the yoimg 
men. " By Jupiter," said Bellarius again, 
" there is an angel in the cave, or if not, an 
earthly paragon." So beautiful did Imogen 
look in her boy's apparel. 

She, hearing the sound of voices, came forth 
from the cave, and addressed them in these 
words : " Good masters, do not harm me -, 
before I entered your cave I had thought to 
have begged or bought what I have eaten, 
Indeed I have stolen .nothing, nor would I, 
though I had found gold strewed on the floor. 
Here is money for my meat, which I would 
have left on the board when I had made my 
meal, and parted with prayers for the provider." 
They refused her money with great earnest- 
ness, " I see you are angry with me," said 
the timid Imogen : " but, sirs, if you kill me 
for my fault, know that I should have died if 
I had not made it." 

" Whither are you bond ? " asked Bellarius 
*' and what is your name ? " 

" Fidele is my name," answered Imogen 
" I have a kinsman, who is bound for Italy , 
he embarked at Milford Haven, to whom be- 
ing going, almost spent with hunger, lam failed 
into this offense." 

" Prithee, fair youth," said old Bellarius, " do 
not think us churls, nor measure our good 
minds by this rude place we live in. You are 



190 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

well encountered ; it is almost night. You 
shall have better cheer before you depart, and 
thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him wel- 
come." 

The gentle youths, her brothers, then wel- 
comed Imogen to their cave with many kind 
expressions, saying they would love her (or, as 
they said, hini) as a brother ; and they entered 
the cave, where (they having killed venison 
when they were hunting) Imogen delighted 
them with her neat housewifery, assisting them 
in preparing their supper ; for though it is not 
the custom now for young women of high birth 
to understand cookery, it was then, and Imogen 
excelled in this useful art ; and, as her brothers 
prettily expressed it, Fidele cut their roots in 
characters, and sauced their broth, as if Juno 
had been sick, and Fidele were her dieter. 
" And then," said Polidore to his brother, 
" how angel-like he sings ! " 

They also remarked to each other, that 
though Fidele smiled so sweetly, yet so sad a 
melancholy did overcloud his lovely face, as if 
grief and patience had together taken posses- 
sion of him. 

For these her gentle qualities (or perhaps it 
was their near relationship, though they knew 
it not) Imogen (or, as the boys called her 
Fidele) became the doting-piece of hev: 
brothers, and she scarcely less loved them, 
thinking that but for the memory of her dear 
Posthumus, she could live and die in the cav<; 
with these wild forest youths ; and she gladly 



CYMBELINE. 191 

consented to stay with them, till she was 
enough rested from the fatigue of traveling to 
pursue her way to Milford Haven. 

When the venison they had taken was all 
eaten, and tliey were going out to hunt for 
more, Fidele could not accompany tliem, 
because she was unwell. Sorrow, no doubt, 
for her husband's cruel usage, as well as the 
fatigue of wandering in the forest, was the 
cause of her illness. 

They then bid her farewell, and went to their 
hunt, praising all the way the noble parts and 
graceful demeanor of the youth Fidele. 

Imogen was no sooner left alone than she 
recollected the cordial Pisanio had given her, 
and drank it off, and presently fell into a sound 
and deadlike sleep. 

When Bellarius and her brothers returned 
from hunting, Polidore went first into the cave, 
and supposing her asleep, pulled off his heavy 
shoes, that he might tread softly and not awake 
"her ; so did true gentleness spring up in the 
minds of these princely foresters : but he soon 
discovered that she could not be awakened by 
any noise, and concluded her to be dead, and 
Polidore lamented over her with dear and 
brotherly regret, as if they had never from 
their infancy been parted. 

Bellarius also proposed to carry her out into 
the forest, and there celebrate her funeral with 
songs and solemn dirges, as was then the 
custom. 

Imogen's two brothers then carried her to 



192 TALES FROM SnAKSPEARE. 

a shady covert, and there laying her gently ot^ 
the grass, they sang repose to her departed 
spirit, and covering her over with leaves and 
flowers, Polidore said, " While summer lasts 
and I live here, Fidele, I will daily strew thy 
sad grave. The pale primrose, that flower 
most like thy face ; the bluebell, like thy clear 
veins ; and the leaf of eglantine, which is not 
sweeter than was thy breath ; all these I will 
strew over thee. Yea, and the furred moss in 
winter, when there are no flowers to cover thy 
sweet corse." 

When they had finished her funeral obse- 
quies, they departed very sorrowful. 

Imogen had not been long left alone, when, 
the effect of the sleepy drug going off, she 
awakened, and easily shaking off the slight 
covering of leave's and flowers they had thrown 
over her, she arose, and imagining she had 
been dreaming, she said, "I thought I was a 
cave-keeper, and cook to honest creatures; 
how came I here, covered with flowers ? " Not 
being able to find, her way back to the cave, 
and seeing nothing of her new companions, 
she concluded it was certainly, all a dream: 
and once more Imogen set out on her weary 
pilgrimage, hoping at last she should find her 
way to Milford Haven, and thence get a pas- 
sage in some ship bound for Italy ; for all her 
thoughts were still with her husband Post- 
humus, whom she intended to seek in the dis- 
guise of a page. 

But great events were happening- at this 



CYMBELINE. 193 

time, of which Imogen knew nothing; for a 
war had suddenly broken out between the 
Roman Emperor Augustus C^sar, and Cymbe- 
line, the King of Britain : and a Roman army 
had landed to invade Britain, and was advanced 
into the very forest over which Imogen was 
journeying. Witli this army came Posthumus. 

Though Posthumus came over to Britain 
with the Roman army, he did not mean to fight 
on their side against his own countrymen, but 
intended to join the army of Britain, and fight 
in the cause of his king who had banished 
him. 

He still believed Imogen false to him ; yet 
the death of her he had so fondly loved, and 
by his own orders too (Pisanio having written 
him a letter to say he had obeyed his com- 
mand, and that Imogen was dead), sat heavy 
on his heart, and therefore he returned to 
Britain, desiring either to be slain in battle, or 
to be put to death by Cymbeline for returning 
home from banishment. 

Imogen, before she reached Milford Haven, 
fell into the hands of the Roman army ; and 
her presence and deportment recommending 
her, she was made a page to Lucius, the Roman 
general. 

Cymbeline's army now advanced to meet the 
enemy, and when they entered this forest 
Polidore and Cadwal joined the king's army. 
The young men were eager to engage in acts 
of valor, though they little thought they were 
going to .fight for their own royal father : and 

13 



£94 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Did Bellarius went with them to the battle. 
He had long since repented of the injury he 
had done to Cymbeline in carrying away his 
sons ; and having been a warrior in his youth, 
he gladly joined the army to fight for the king 
he had so injured. 

And now a great battle commenced between 
the armies, and the Britons would have been 
defeated, and Cymbeline himself killed, but 
for the extraordinary valor of Posthumus and 
Bellarius, and the two sons of Cymbeline. 
They rescued the king, and saved his life, and 
so entirely turned the fortune of the day that 
the Britons gained the victory. 

When the battle was over, Posthumus, who 
had not found the death he sought for, sur- 
rendered himself up to one of the officers of 
Cymbeline, willing to suffer the death which 
was to be his punishment if he returned from 
banishment. 

Imogen and the master she served were 
taken prisoners, and brought before Cymbeline, 
as was also her old enemy lachimo, who was 
an officer in the Roman army ; and when these 
prisoners were before the king, Posthumus was 
brought into receive his sentence of death;, 
and at this strange juncture of time, Bellarius 
with Polidore and Cadwal were also brought 
before Cymbeline, to receive the rewards due 
to the great services they had by their valor 
done for the king. Pisanio, being one of the 
king's attendants, was likewise present. 

Therefore there was now standing in the 



CYMBELINE. 195 

king's presence (but with very different hopes 
and fears) Posthumus and Imogen, with her 
new master the Roman general ; the faithful 
servant Pisanio, and the false friend lachimo ; 
and likewise the two lost sons of Cymbeline, 
wilh Bellarius, who had stolen them away. 

The Roman general was the first who spoke ; 
the rest stood silent before the king, though 
there was many a beating heart among thein, 

Imogen saw Posthumus and knew him, 
though he was in the disguise of a peasant ; 
but he did not know her in her male attire ; 
and she knew lachimo, and she saw a ring on 
his finger which she perceived to be her owr., 
but she did not know him as yet to have been 
the author of all her troubles : and she stood 
before her own father a prisoner of war. 

Pisanio knew Imogen, for it was he who had 
dressed her in the garb of a boy. " It is my 
mistress," thought he; "since she is living, let 
the time run on to good or bad." Bellarius 
knew her too, and softly said to Cadwal, "Is 
not this boy revived from death ? " " One 
sand," replied Cadwal, " does not more resem- 
ble another than that sweet rosy lad is like the 
dead Fidele." " The same dead thing alive," 
said Polidore. " Peace, peace," said Bellarius ; 
" if it were he, I am sure he would have spoken 
to us." " But we saw him dead," again whis- 
pered Polidore. " Be silent," replied Bellarius. 
Posthumus waited in silence to hear the 
welcome sentence of his own death ; and he 
resolved not to disclose to the king that he 



196 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

had saved his life in the battle, lest that should 
move Cymbeline to pardon him. 

Lucius, the Roman general, who had taken 
Imogen under his protection as his page, was 
the first (as has been before* said) who spoke 
to the king. He was a man of high courage 
and noble dignity, and this was his speech to 
the king : 

" I hear you take no ransom for your prisoners, 
but doom them all to death : I am a Roman, 
and with a Roman heart will suffer death. 
But there is one thing for which I would 
entreat." Then bringing Imogen before the 
king, he said,- "This boy is a Briton born. 
Let him be ransomed. He is my page. Never 
master had a page so kind, so duteous, so dili- 
gent on all occasions, so true, so nurse-like. 
He hath done no Briton wrong, though he 
hath served a Roman. Save him, if you spare 
no one beside." 

Cymbeline looked earnestly on his daughter 
Imogen. He knew her not in that diguise ; 
but it seemed that all-powerful nature speak in 
his heart, for he said, " I have surely seen him, 
his face appears familiar to me. I know not 
why or wherefore I say. Live, boy ; but I give 
you your life, and ask of me what boon you 
will, and I will grant it you. Yea, even though 
it be the life of the noblest prisoner I have." 

"I humbly thank your highness," said 
Imogen. 

What was then called granting a boon was 
the same as a promise to give any one thing, 



CYMBELINE. 197 

whatever it might be, that the person on whom 
the favor was conferred chose to ask for. 
They all were attentive to hear what thing the 
page would ask for ; and Lucius her master 
said to her, " I do not beg my life, good lad, 
but I know that is what you will ask for." " No, 
no, alas ! " said Imogen, " I have other work 
in hand, good master ; your life I cannot ask 
for." 

This seeming want of gratitude in the boy 
astonished the Roman general. 

Imogen then, fixing her eye on lachimo, de- 
manded no other boon than this, that lachmio 
should be made to confess whence he had the 
ring he wore on his finger. 

Cymbeline granted her this boon, and 
threatened lachimo with the torture if he did 
not confess how he came by the diamond ring 
on his finger. 

lachimo then made a full acknowledgment 
of all his villany, telling, as has been before 
related, the whole story of his wager with 
Posthumus, and how he had succeeded in im- 
posing upon his credulity. 

What Poshumus felt at hearing this proof of 
the innocence of his lady, 'cannot be expressed. 
He instantly came forward, and confessed to 
Cymbeline the cruel sentence which he had 
enjoined Pisanio to execute upon the princess ; 
exclaiming wildly, " O Imogen, my queen, my 
life, my wife ! Imogen, Imogen, Imogen ! " 

Imogen could not see her beloved husband 
in this distress without discovering herself, to 



198 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

the unutterable joy of Posthumus, who was 
thus relieved from a weight of guilt and woe, 
and restored to the good graces of the dear 
lady he had so cruelly treated. 

Cymbeline, almost as much overwhelmed as 
he with joy at finding his lost daughter so 
strangely recovered, received her to her former 
place in his fatherly affection, and not only 
gave her husband Posthumus his life, but con- 
sented to acknowledge him for his son-in-law. 

Bellarius chose this time of joy and recon- 
ciliation to make his confession. He presented 
Polidore and Cadwal to the king, telling him 
they were his two lost sons, Guiderius and 
Arviragus. 

Cymbeline forgave old Bellarius ; for who 
could think of punishment at a season of such 
universal happiness ? To find his daughter 
living, and his lost sons in the persons of his 
young deliverers, that he had seen so bravely 
fight in his defense, was unlooked-for joy 
indeed ! 

Imogen was now at leisure to perform good 
services for her late master, the Roman general 
Lucius, whose life the king her father readily 
granted at her request ; and by the meditation 
of the same Lucius a peace was concluded 
between the Romans and the Britons, which 
was kept inviolate many years. 

How Cymbeline's wicked queen, through 
despair of bringing her projects to pass, and 
touched with remorse of conscience, sickened 
and died, having first lived to see her foolish 



CYMBELINE. 199 

son Cloten slain in a quarrel which he had 
provoked, are events too tragical to interrupt 
tills happy conclusion by more than merely 
touching upon. It is sufficient that all were 
made happy, who were deserving ; and even 
the treacherous lachimo, in consideration of 
his villany having missed its final aim, was 
dismissed without punishment. 



LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE, 

After all the laborious research which has 
been expended on the subject of Shakspeare's 
biography, few particulars are known on those 
points which would be most gratifying to the 
curiosity of his rational admirers. We may 
trace his ancestors to the doomsday book, and 
his posterity till they dwindle into tonguelesa 
obscurity ; but of his own habits and domestic 
character we know comparatively nothing. 
During his early days, his path of life was so 
humble, that all our inquiries necessarily 
terminate in disappointment ; and of the more 
busy periods of his existence, when he wrote 
for the stage, and was the public favorite, 
his remarkable humility of mind and manners 
induced him to avoid the eye of notoriety; 
and, unfortunately, there was no Boswell or 
Medwin to make, memoranda of his conversa- 
tions, or transmit to our times a facsimile of 
the great dramatist in the familiar moments of 
relaxation and friendly intercourr.e. Such 
hiatuses in the life of Shakspeare cannot be 
now supplied ; now about two hundred years 
have elapsed since his mortal remains were 
left to molder beneath a tomb, over which 
Time has shaken the dust of his wings too 

2QI 



202 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 

often to allow of our recovering details, loca) 
and fugitive, however interesting. Rowe was 
the first whose researches elicited anything 
like a satisfactory memoir of our great bard. 
Poets and critics have laboriously retrodden 
his steps ; the genius of Pope and the acumen 
of Johnson have been employed on the same 
subject, but the sun of their adoration had 
gone down before their intellectual telescopes 
were levelled to discover its perfections. 
Malone has done the most, and appears 
indeed to have exhausted the subject ; but, 
from inadvertency or carelessness, he has 
overlooked many particulars which deserve 
preservation.-^ Having turned over a variety 
of books, and consulted every accessible 
authority, we shall attempt to condense, under 
one head, such recollections of Shakspeare as 
are at present scattered over many volumes, 
as well as the more obvious and familiar 
portions of his history. 

It appears a family designated indifferentl) 
Shaxper, Shakespeare, Shakspere and Shaks^ 
^eare, were well-known in Warwickshire during 
the sixteenth century. Rowe says : '' It seems 
by the register and other public writings of 
Stratford, that the poet's family were of good 
figure and fashion there, and are mentioned 
as gentlemen." 

* Since the above was written, some forty years ago, 
a much abler critic and investigator has come forward 
to illustrate the somewhat dim knowledge hitherto 
existing of Shakspeare's family, — Charles Knight. 



LTFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 2 03 

This accoutit turns out to be very incorrect ; 
for on reference to the authorities cited, we 
find that the Sliakspeares, though their property 
was respectable, never rose above tlae rank of 
tradesmen or lausbandmen. Nothing is known 
of tlie immediate ancestors of John Sliakspeare, 
the poet's father, who was originally a glover, 
afterwards a hatcher, and in the last place, a 
wool-stapler, in the town of Stratford. Being 
very industrious, his wealth gave him impor- 
tance among his neighbors, and having served 
various offices in the borough with credit, 
he ultimately obtained its supreme municipal 
honors, being elected high-bailiff, at Michael- 
mas, 1568. His town-folks no doubt consid- 
ered this the summit of earthly felicity ; but 
however reverend the corporation of Stratford 
in its own estimation, we cannot but smile at 
these erudite sages, out of nineteen of whom, 
as we find from their signatures, attached to a 
public document, 1564, only seve7i were able to 
write their names. While chief magistrate of 
the borough, and on his marriage with Mary 
Arden, he obtained a grant of arms from the 
Herald's College, and was allowed to impale 
his own achievement with that of the ancient 
family of the Ardens. 

In the deed respecting John Shakspeare, his 
property is declared to be worth five hundred 
pounds, a sum by no means inconsiderable in 
those days ; and, on the whole, we have suffi- 
cient evidence of his worldly prosperity. 
From some unexplained causes, however, his 



204 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 

affairs began to alter for the worse about 1574, 
and after employing such expedients to relieve 
his growing necessities as in the fend served 
only to aggravate them, he at length fell into 
Buch extreme poverty that he was obliged to 
give security for a debt of five pounds ; and a 
distress issuing for the seizure of his goods, it 
was returned : " Joh'es Shakspere nihil habet 
unde distr. potest levari." (John Shakspere 
has no effects on which a distraint can be 
levied.) During the last ten years of his life, 
we have no particular account of his circum- 
stances ; but, as in 1597 he describes himself 
as "of very small wealth and very few friends," 
we may justly suppose that he remained in 
great indigence. He seems indeed to have 
fallen into decay with his native town, the trade 
cf which was almost ruined; as we may learn 
from the application of the burgesses in 1590, 
The town had then " fallen into much decay, 
for want of such trade as heretofore they had by 
clothing, and making of yarn, employing and 
maintaining a number of poor people by the 
same, which now live in great penury and 
misery, by reason they are not set to work as 
before they have been." 

John Shakspeare died in 1601. His family 
consisted of eight children, Jane, Margaret, 
William, Gilbert, Lorie, Anne, Richard, and 
Edmund. Lorie and Margaret died when but 
a few months old. Of Gilbert nothing is known 
but the register of his baptism. Jane married 
9ne Hart, a hatter of Stratford, and died in 



LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 205 

1646, leaving three sons. She is mentioned 
with much kindness in her illustrious brother's 
will ; and the descendants of her children 
were to be found in Stratford within these few 
years. In 1749, a house of Shakspeare's, in 
Henly Street, belonged to Thomas Hart, a 
butcher, and the sixth in descent from Jane. 
Anne Shakspeare, died an infant ; Richard, 
according to the parish register, was buried in 
16 1 2. Edmund Shakspeare, actuated probably 
by his brother's reputation at the theater, be- 
came an actor; he performed at the Globe, 
lived in St. Saviour's, Southwark, and was in- 
terred in the churchyard of that parish, on the 
31st of December, 1606. 

William Shakspeare was born April 23d, 
1564, at Stratford-upon-Avon. The house in 
which the poet first saw the light was bought, 
in 1597, from a family of the name of Under- 
bill. It had been called the great Jiouse, not 
because it is really large, but on account of its 
having been at that time the best in the town. 
In its present dilapidated state, the ablest 
artists have exerted their skill to preserve the 
outline of so remarkable a building for the 
gratification of posterity, and the most minute 
particulars concerning it have been collected 
with the utmost avidity. 

The chamber, in which our unrivalled dram- 
atist is said to have drawn his first breath, is 
penciled over with the names of innumer- 
able visitors in every grade of life. Royalty 
nas been proud to pay this simple tribute to 



2o6 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 

exalted intellect ; and Genius has paused in 
its triumphs, to inscribe these hallowed walla 
with the brief sentences which record its love 
and veneration for the wonderful man who 
once recognized this lowly tenement as his 
ho7?ie. The following lines are ascribed to 
Lucien Buonaparte, who during his stay in 
England made an excursion into Warwickshire, 
expressly to gratify his curiosity respecting 
our all-praised Shakspeare : 

'■ The eye of Genius glistens to admire 
How memory hails the sound of Shakspeare' s lyre. 
One tear I'll shed to form a crystal shrine 
Of all that's grand, immortal, and divine. 
Let princes o'er their subject kingdoms rule; 
'Tis Shakspeare's province to command the soul ! 
To add one leaf, oh, Shakspeare ! to thy bays, 
How vain the effort, and how mean my lays ! 
Immortal Shakspeare ! o'er thy hallow'd page, 
Age becomes taught, and youth is e'en made sage." 

This house, so venerable on account of its 
former inmate, is now divided, one part being 
a butcher's shop, and the other a public-house. 

Of Shakspeare's infancy we know nothing, 
except that he narrowly escaped falling a 
victim to the plague, which at that time almost 
depopulated his native town. We next find 
him at the free grammar-school of Stratford, 
where we may suppose he acquired the 
" small Latin and less Greek^^ for which Ben 
Jonson gives him credit. But even this im- 
perfect species of education was soon inter- 
rupted, the poverty of his father presenting an 



LIFE OF SIIAKSPEARF. 20) 

insurmountable obstacle to his further prog- 
ress. There can be little doubt, however, 
that his quick and apprehensive mind would 
profit materially even by this limited supply 
of instruction. In after life, he seems to have 
been acquainted with Italian and French, but 
these languages he probably acquired through 
his own unassisted industry. He now for a 
considerable period remained at home, and at- 
tended to his father's occupation, that of a 
butcher ; and Aubrey, an author in whom we 
should not put implicit confidence, relates that 
young Shakspeare killed a calf ^' in high style," 
and graced the slaughter with an oration. 
The same writer informs us, that growing dis- 
gusted with this employment, he commenced 
schoolmaster, but this, from his juvenility at 
the time mentioned, is highly improbable. 

Shakspeare's eighteenth year was scarcely 
passed when, relinquishing his school, or his 
office (for Malone makes him an attorney's 
ulerk), he ventured to contract that important 
engagement on which the happiness or misery 
of life generally turns. He selected for his 
wife Anne Hathaway, the daughter of a repu« 
table yeoman in the vicinity of Stratford. At 
her marriage, she was eight years older than 
her husband, and Shakspeare's domestic felic- 
ity does not appear to have been advanced 
by the connection. In the year following, 
1583, his daughter Susanna was born : and in 
eighteen months afterwards his wife bore him 
twins, a boy and a girl, baptized by the name 



3o8 LIFE OFSHAKSPEARE. 

of Hamnet and Judith. This was the whole 
of the poet's family ; from which we are per- 
haps justified in concluding, as there are other 
circumstances to strengtlien the opinion, tliat 
his connubial lot was not enviable; indeed, 
his wife's years were so ill-assorted to his own, 
that little congeniality of sentiment was to be 
expected. Hamnet, Shakespeare's only son, 
died at the early age of twelve years, an event 
long and deeply regretted: the daughters, 
Susanna and Judith, were married, and had 
children. Shakspeare's last lineal descendant 
was Lady Barnard, buried, in 1670, at Abing- 
don, in Berkshire. Some branches of the 
family s.till exist, and are resident at Tewkes- 
bury and Stratford ; they are in great indi- 
gence, and it reflects disgrace on the age, that 
a proposal for their benefit, recently made, re- 
ceived hardly any attention. Surely, when our 
nobility patronize the refuse of society, in the 
shape of pedestrians and pugilists, their gen- 
erosity might be exercised in succoring those 
who claim kindred with him who was the glory 
of his country and of human nature. 

The inhabitants of Shakspeare's native town 
were passionately fond of dramatic entertain- 
ments. Traveling companies of players ap- 
pear to have visited Stratford on more than 
twenty occasions between 1569 (when the poet 
was under six years of age) and 1587. Bur- 
bage and Green, two celebrated actors, were 
his townsmen, and even from childhood his 
attention must have been attracted to the 



LIFE OF SHAKSFEARE. 209 

stage, by the powerful influence of novelty, 
and in all probability, by his personal acquaint- 
ance with some of the comedian?. When, 
therefore, his views in life were unavoidably 
altered, it was natural that the theater should 
present itself to his mind as his best asylum ; 
and directing his fugitive steps to the metro- 
polis, he became a player, and, in the end, a 
writer for the stage. The tale of Shakspeare's 
attending at the Globe, on his first arrival at 
London, to take the charge of gentlemen's 
horses during the performance, is much 
douDied at present; but it seems likely that 
the first office he held in the theater was that 
of m//-,^^, or prompter's- attendant. He did 
not long continue in that capacity, being soon 
admitted 10 perform minor parts in the popular 
plays of that period. 

Shakspeare followed the profession of an 
.actor upwards of seventeen years, and till 
within about thirteen years of his death ; but 
we have good reason to suppose that six shill- 
ings and cightpence a wcekwdLS the highest reward 
of his dramatic efforts. Of his merit _ as a 
player, we have no positive data on which to 
found an estimate, and accordingly there is 
great difference of opinion among the critics. 
Tragedians and dramatists were not then so 
jealously watched a^ at present: diurnal re- 
viewers were unknown, and an actor's fame 
depended entirely on the caprice of judges, 
who were too frequently very incompetent to 
form a correct decision. From some satirical 
14 



2IO LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 

passages in the writings of his contemporaries, 
we may fairly suppose tliat he was not a favo- 
rite performer with the public. His instruc- 
tions to the players in Hamlet, however, be- 
speak such mastery in their art, and are in 
themselves so excellent, that we are strongly 
inclined to believe that his unpopularity must 
be attributed more to the bad taste of his au- 
ditors than to the deficiency of his own powers. 
Acting, considered as a science, was then in 
its infancy ; he that " strutted and bellowed " 
most would be esteemed the best actor. 
Shakspeare's adherence to nature would be 
misunderstood, and his gentleness would be 
censured as tameness. 

The only characters which we know with 
certainty to' have been personated by Shak- 
speare are the Ghost in Hamlet^ and Adam in 
As You Like It : his name appears in the list 
of players attached to Ben Jonson's Scjanus, 
and Every man in his Hnmor ; but it is suffi- 
ciently evident that he never sustained any 
very important part, and, but for his genius as 
a poet, which neither indigence nor obscurity 
could repress, that name, which we now repeat 
with reverence and love, would have been lost 
in the darkness of oblivion. That Shakspeare 
was not more successful on the stage might 
arise from the injustice and false taste of his 
audience : but this is hardly to be lamented, 
since, had he been eminent as an actor, he 
would probably have neglected composition. 
" It may indeed be considered (says Dr. Drake) 



LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 2H 

IS a most fortunate circumstance for the lovers 
of dramatic poetry, that our author, in point 
of execution, did not attain to the loftiest sum- 
mit of his profession. He would in that case, 
it is very probable, have either sat down con- 
tented with the high reputation accruing to 
him from this source, or would have found lit- 
tle time for the labors of composition, and 
consequently we should have been in a great 
degree, if not altogether, deprived of what 
now constitutes the noblest efforts of human 
genius." 

Despised as an actor, Shakspeare aspired to 
distinction as an author ; and notwithstanding 
his mighty capacity, he was for a long time con- 
tent with altering and revising the production^ 
of others. Of the dramas produced previous 
to i6oo,there were some which abounded with 
felicitous ideas and effective situations ; but 
the writers had used their materials with little 
skill, and the touch of a master was required 
to reduce them to order and consistency. The 
noblest geniuses of the age did not refuse such 
employment. Decker, Rowley, Heywood, and 
Jonson, were often occupied in conferring 
value on such productions ; and to this un- 
thankful labor the early efforts of our bard 
were modestly confined. 

Dramatists were, generally speaking, abjectly 
poor : they were enthralled by managers, either 
for past favors, exisiting debts, or the well- 
founded apprehension of needing their assist- 
ance. What can be more affecting, than to 



212 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 

find the illustrious Ben Jonson supplicating 
from Henslowe the advance of a sum so paltry 
a.% '■'• five shiUings V The calling Shakspeare 
embraced was, in a majority of instances, any- 
thing rather than profitable : his mighty mind 
could scarcely have selected any sphere of 
action more barren of reward : but the camp, 
the senate, and the bar, were then almost ex- 
clusively filled by the young scions of nobility ; 
and preferring to be first among his brother 
authors, however humble their prospects, he 
poured out all the wealth of his intellect on 
the stage, and laid the foundation of a renown^ 
which is perpetually increasing, and is never 
hkely to be equalled. 

No potion of Shakspeare's history is more 
obscure than the period at which he first ven- 
tured to rely on the resources of his own mind, 
and produce an original drama on the stage 
which he had so often trod unnoticed. Every 
attempt to select from the long list of his 
wonderful productions the one which had 
paved the way for his future eminence, his 
maiden effort in the arena of his coming glories, 
has ended in uncertainty and disappointment. 
Tlie two Gentlanen of Verona and the Comedy 
of Erro7's have been pitched upon, but almost 
any of his other plays might have been chosen 
with an equal approximation to truth. Our 
bard, however, was well known as a dramatic 
writer in 1592, and there is reason to suppose 
that all his compositions for the stage were 
written between 1590 and 1613, a period of 



LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 213 

about twenty-three years. And when it is con- 
sidered that we possess thirty of his playSi 
which are indisputably genuine, besides several, 
the authenticity of which is doubtful, the mar- 
vellous power and range of his intellect will 
be sufficiently evident. According to the 
chronological order in which the critics have 
placed his dramas, his genius appears in full 
vigor from its first flight to the moment v/hen its 
eagle pinions became quiescent forever, A 
Midsummer Nighfs Dream is the second in 
scription on the luminous column of his re- 
nown. Othello, The Tempest, and Twelfth 
Night, are engraven in characters of light on 
its base. Other minds have had their infancy, 
their maturity, and their decline. In other 
intellects, even the most resplendent, we 
observe the unfoldings of genius, as of the 
gradual unfolding of the morning's light, its 
maturity as of the full blaze of noon, and its 
decline and decay as the twilight of evening 
and the darkness of night. Milton wrote 
Samson Agonistes before Paradise Lost, and 
Paradise Regained after it ; but the rise, prog- 
ress', and termination of Shakspeare's brilliant 
career were equally gloriaus. In combining 
author and actor in his own person, the dram- 
atist might in some degree alleviate his pecu- 
niary difficulties, but it could scarcely have 
redeemed him from the indigence under which 
his brother writers were suffering; yet his 
superlative merit as a poet soon advanced 
him in the regard of the great and the noble. 



214 LIFE OF SHAKSFEARE. 

The players in his time were constantly denonv 
inated and treated as servants ; and when the 
actor's duty made his presence necessary at 
his patron's mansion, the buttery- was the only 
place to which he expected admittance. On 
the contrary, the friendship of the dramatist 
was frequently sought by the opulent ; even 
noblemen made him their companion, and 
chose him at once as the object of bounty and 
esteem. In this manner, Shakspeare became 
the bosom associate of the all-accomplished 
Lord Southampton. That nobleman's father- 
in-law, Sir Thomas Heminge, was treasurer of 
the queen's chamber, in which capacity it was 
his duty to reward the actors employed at 
court : thus plays and players were almost 
forced upon the notice of Lord Southampton, 
and the hold theatrical amusements had on 
his mind is evident, even at a late period of 
his life, from his shvmning the court for a 
^/«r;z^?/ attendance at the Globe ; his entertain- 
ment of Cecil with " plaies," and his ordering 
Richard JI. to be performed on the night 
previous to the rebellion of the Earl of Essex, 
Shakspeare's intimacy with Southampton com- 
menced when the -latter was about twenty 
years of age, and from the dedications prefixed 
to Venus and Adonis in 1593, and the Hape of 
Luerece in 1594, it is apparent that their 
friendship was cemented by great liberality in 
the patron and lively gratitude in the poet, 

Rowe, on the authority of Davenant, relates, 
that in order to enable Shakspeare to com'plet^ 



LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 



215 



a purchase, Southampton at once presented 
hhn with a thousand pounds, a gift truly 
princely. The tradition deserves credit from 
the wealth which the dramatist is known to 
have possessed a few years subsequently to 
his arrival in London; for it is contrary to 
probability that his opulence could have arisen 
from his emoluments, either as actor or author. 
All his original productions were sold abso- 
lutely to the theater, and the gain accruing from 
them could not have been large, as he neither 
published his plays, nor received advantage 
from their dedication to the wealthy. Some 
of his dramas were printed in his lifetime; 
but this was done surreptitiously, and was at 
once a fraud on author, proprietor, and reader. 

Of Shakspeare's comparative opulence there 
can be no doubt; in 1597, he purchased New 
Place, the most respectable mansion in his 
native Stratford, and went to considerable ex- 
pense in alterations and repairs. 

In the succeeding year, we find Richard 
Quyney, a townsman, applying to him as a 
person of substance, for the loan of thirty 
pounds ; and shortly after, we find him express^ 
ing his readiness to lend, on proper security, 
a sum of money for the use of the town of 
Stratford. His continued advance in worldly 
consideration is indicated by his further pur- 
chases. In 1602, according to Wheeler, he 
gave 320/. for one hundred and seventy acres 
of land, which he added to his estate in New 
Place, lu 1605, he bought for 440/. a moiety 



«l6 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 

of the great and small tithes of Stratford ; and 
in 1613, a tenement in Blackfriars for 140/. 
It is remarkable in this latter purchase, that 
only 80/. of the money was paid down, the 
residue being left as a mortgage on the 
premises. Malone is of opinion that his annual 
income could not have been less than 200/., 
which, at the age when he lived, was equal to 
800/. at present. 

Several of the nobility, particularly the earls 
of Pembroke and Montgomery, vied with 
Southampton in conferring benefits on Shaks- 
peare, and he was distinguished in a most 
flattering manner by the favor of two succes- 
sive sovereigns. We are told that the Merry 
Wives of Windsor (the first draught of which 
was finished :n a fortnight) was written ex- 
pressly at command of the Virgin Queen, who 
being highly delighted with Falstaff's humor 
in Henry IV., wished him to be exhibited 
under the influence of love. The character of 
Falstaff, one of the happiest and most original 
of all the author's efforts, was, according to 
Bowman the player, who cited Sir William 
Bishop as his authority, drawn from a towns- 
man of Stratford, who either faithlessly broke 
a contract, or spitefully refused to part with 
some land, for a valuable consideration, ad- 
joining to Shakspeare's, in or near the town. 

The author's reputation was no doubt in 
creased by the approbation of his royal mis- 
tress, which in all likelihood was the only solid 
advantage he obtained from her notice. Rowe 



LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 217 

pelebrates the •' many gracious marks of her 
favor" which Shakspeare received; but no 
traces of any pecuniary reward from her mu- 
nificence are to be found, and the almost in- 
variable parsimony of Elizabetli towards literary 
men may fairly induce us to question whether 
her generosity was exliibted in anything more 
substantial tlian praise, notwithstanding all 
the elegant flattery which the poet offered on 
the shrine of her vanity. Elizabeth was cer- 
tainly a very liighly-gifted woman, but she was 
too selfish to pay for applause, whicli she was 
sure of obtaining at an easier rate. 

In James I. tlie stage found a warm and 
generous patron. In 1599 he gave protection 
to a company of English comedians in his 
Scottish capital ; and he had no sooner 
ascended the British throne than he effected 
an absolute change in the theatrical world. In 
the first year of his reign, an act of parliament 
passed which took from the nobility the 
privilege of liscensing comedians, and all the 
skeleton companies then existing were im- 
mediately united into three regular establish- 
ments patronized by the royal family. Henry, 
prince of Wales, became the patron of lord 
Nottingham's company, which performed at 
the Curtain ; the Ear' of Worcester's servants, 
who commonly acted at the Red Bull, were 
turned over to the queen, and ultimately 
designated Children of the Revels ; while the 
king declared the lord Chamberlain's com- 
pany under his own special care. The license 



2l8 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 

which James -granted to Laurence Fletcher, 
William Shakspeare, Richard Burbage, and 
others, dated May 19, 1603, constituted them 
his servants, gave them legal possession of 
their usual house, the Globe, and allowed 
them to exhibit every kind of dramatic repre- 
sentation, in all suitable places in his domin- 
ions. From this document we learn that the 
Globe was the theater generally occupied by 
the lord chamberlain's servants ; but they had 
some interest in the house at Blackfriars, 
which, in the end, they purchased. At these 
theaters all Shakspeare's plays were origin- 
ally acted ; the Globe was the summer, the 
Blackfriars the winter house of the company 
with which he was connected. 

Though Elizabeth and James were particu- 
larly fond of dramatic representations, it does 
not appear that they ever visited the public 
theaters ; they gratified their taste by com- 
manding the comedians to perform plays at 
court. These entertainments were usually 
given at night, which arrangement suited the 
actors, as the theaters were generally open in 
the morning. The ordinary fee for such a 
performance in London was 6/. 13J. A^d., and 
an additional 3/. ds. %d. was sometimes be 
stowed by the bounty of royalty. 

Shakspeare soon became important in the 
management of the theater, and participated 
in all the emoluments of the company. It is 
impossible to estimate his income from this 
source ; we are ignorant into how many shares 



LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 219 

this theatrical property was divided ; nor car: 
we tell what proportion of them was enjoyed 
by our poet. If, however, he was equal with 
Heminges, who is joined with him in the 
license, we are authorized by his partner to 
assert that it produced, "a good yearly in- 
come." This worldly elevation induced him 
to quit the drudgery of an actor, which em- 
ployment he speaks of in his Sonnets with 
disgust, and thenceforth he seems to have 
yielded all the powers of his comprehensive 
mind to the improvement of dramatic litera- 
ture. The affectionate wish which Shak- 
speare formed in early life, to return, after his 
brilliant career, to his native Stratford, and 
die at home, induced him to purchase New 
Place, in 1597. In the pleasure ground of 
that unassuming mansion, he planted with his 
own hand a mulberry tree, which flourished 
for many years, and was regarded with rever- 
ence. To this favorite spot, in 16 13 or 1614, 
he retired from the applauses of his contem- 
poraries and the bustle of the world, to the 
genuine repose and unsophisticated pleasures 
of a country life. Aubrey informs us, that it 
was our bard's custom to visit Stratford 
yearly: but previous to 1596, the place of his 
residence in London has not been discovered. 
He then lodged near the Bear Garden in 
Southwark, and it is not improbable that he 
remained there till his final retirement from 
the metropolis. 

Much has been said of the rivalship and 



22 o LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 

dissension between Ben Jonson and Shaks- 
peare : we shall give a few particulars, from 
which we think it will appear that they both 
were entirely free from personal ill-will. 
Pope says, that Jonson " loved Shakspeare 
as well as honored his memory, celebrates the 
honesty, openness, and frankness of his tem- 
per, and only distinguishes, as he reasonably 
ought, between the real merit of the author, 
and the silly and derogatory applauses of the 
players." Gilchrist, a very clever critic, pub- 
lished a pamphlet to prove that Jonson was 
never a harsh or envious rival of Shakspeare, 
and that the popular opinion on the subject 
is altogether erroneous. Rowe gives us the 
subjoined anecdote, which has been thought 
worthy of credit : " Mr. Jonson, who was at 
that time altogether unknown to the world, 
had offered one of his plays to the players in 
order to have it acted ; and the persons into 
whose hands it was put, after having turned 
it carelessly and superciliously over, were just 
upon returning it to him with an ill-natured 
answer, that it would be of no service to their 
company, when Shakspeare luckily cast his 
eye upon it, and found something so well in 
it as to engage him first to read it through, 
and afterwards to recommend Mr. Jonson 
and his writings to the public." It is not a 
little remarkable, that Jonson seems to have 
held a higher place in public estimation than 
our poet, for more than a century after the 
4eath of the latter. Within that period, Ben's 



LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 221 

works went through numerous editions, and 
were read with eagerness, while Shakspeare's 
remained in comparative neglect till the time 
of Rowe : of this fact, abundant evidence 
might be given ; not only was Jonson pre- 
ferred, but even Beaumont and Fletcher, with 
many dramatic writers infinitely below them 
in merit, were exalted above him. 

Fuller's comparative view of these illustrious 
writers is highly interesting : " Shakspeare 
was an eminent instance of the truth of that 
rule : Poeta non fit, sed nascitur (one is not 
made, but born a poet). Indeed his learning 
was but very little ; so that as ConiisJt 
Diajnofids are not polished by any lapidary, 
but are pointed and smooth even as they are 
taken out of the earth, so nature itself was all 
the art which was used upon him. Many were 
the wit combats betwixt him and Ben Jonson, 
which two I beheld, like a Spanish g7- eat gal- 
leon, and an English man of war I Master 
jonson, like the former, was built far higher 
in learning, solid but slow in his performances. 
Shakspeare, with the English man of war^ 
lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn 
v/ith all tides, and take advantage of all winds, 
by the quickness of his wit and invention." 

The following anecdote, preserved by 
Malone, will serve to show the habits of close 
intimacy in which these great and amiable 
men lived. In the serious business of life, 
rivals, and even enemies, are often obliged to 
associate ; but when we find men seeking each 



222 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE, 

Other in the season of relaxation, and mingling 
thoughts in their sportive humors, we may 
safely pronounce them to be friends. Ar 
amicable dispute arose concerning the motto 
of the Globe theater, " Totus inimdus agit hh- 
trionem ; " (all the world acts a play ,) some 
condemed it as unmeaning, others declared 
it to be a fine piece of sententious wisdom; 
Jonson, being asked for his opinion, wrote on 
a scrap of paper, 

" If but stage actors all the world displays, 
Where shall we find spectators of their plays ? " 

Shakspeare smiled, and taking the pen, set 
down these lines under Ben's couplet : 

" Little or much of what we see we do, 
We're all both actors and spectators too." 

All this may be called trifling, but even trifles 
become interesting when connected with a Jon- 
son and a Shakspeare. 

Mr. Gifford has triumphantly proved, that 
the once generally received opinion of Jonson's 
malignant feelings towards his friend and bene- 
factor, is void of the slightest foundations in 
fact ; on the contrary, we are justified in believ- 
ing that the author of Scjanus wa^, on all occa- 
sions, ready to admit the wonderful merit of 
his less learned, but more highly-gifted contem- 
porary. His lines under Shakspeare's effigy 
breathe the warmest spirit of reverence and 
love ; 



LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 223 



'The figure that thou here seest put. 
It was for gentle Shakspeare cut; 
Wherein the graver had a strife 
With nature to outdo the life. 
O, could he but have drawne his wit 
As well in brass as lie hath hit 
His face, the print would then surpass 
All that was ever writ in brass; 
But since he cannot, reader, looke 
Not on his picture but his booke." 



Queen Elizabeth used sometimes to sit be- 
hind the scenes, while her favorite plays were 
performing: one evening, Shakspeare enact- 
ed the part of a monarch (probably, in Henry 
IV.'). The audience knew that her majesty 
was present. She crossed the stage while 
Shakspeare was acting, and being loudly 
greeted by the spectators, curtsied politely to 
the poet, who took no notice of her conde- 
scension. When behind the scenes, she 
caught his 3ye and moved again, but still he 
would not throw off his character to pay her 
any attention. This made her majesty think 
of some means to know whether she could 
induce him to forget the dignity of his char- 
acter while on the stage. Accordingly, as he 
was about to make his exit, she stepped before 
him, dropped her glove, and re-crossed the 
stage, which Shakspeare noticing, took it up 
with these words, so immediately after finish- 
ing his speech that they seemed to belong 
to it: 

" And though now bent on this high embassy, 
Yet stoop we to take up our cousin's glove." 



2 24 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 

He then withdrew from the stage, and pre- 
sented the glove to the queen, who vi^as much 
pleased with his behavior, and complimented 
him on its propriety. 

One evening, Burbage performed Richard 
III., and while behind the scenes, Shakspeare 
overheard him making an assignation with a 
lady of considerable beauty. Burgage was to 
knock at her chamber-door : she was to say, 
" Who comes there ? " and on receiving for ■ 
answer, " 'Tis I, Richard the Third," the 
favored tragedian was to be admitted. Shaks' 
peare instantly determined to keep the ap- 
pointment himself. Tapping at the lady's 
door, he made the expected response to her 
interrogatary, and gained admittance. The 
poet's eloquence soon converted the fair one's 
anger into satisfaction ; but the real Simon 
Pure quickly arrived ; he rapped loudly, and 
to the expected query replied, " 'Tis I, Richard 
the Third." "Then," quoth Shakspeare, "go 
thy ways, Burby, for thou knowest that Will- 
iam the Cojtqueror reigned before Richard tht 
Thirdr 

Rowe says : " The latter part of his life was 
spent, as all men of good sense would wish 
theirs may be, in ease, retirement, and the con- 
versation of his friends. His pleasurable wit 
and good nature engaged him in the acquaint- 
ance, and entitled him to the friendship, of 
the gentlemen of the neighborhood." And in 
the words of Dr. Drake, " He was high in rep 
utation as a poet, favored by the great and 



LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 225 

accomplished, and beloved by all who knew 
him." Nothing can be more delightful than 
to contemplate this wonderful man, in the 
vigor of his age, and in the full possession of 
his amazing faculties, retiring from the scene 
of his well-earned triumphs, to find, in the com- 
parative exclusion of his native town, that re- 
pose and quietude, both in mind and body, 
which is not to be looked for in the bustle -of 
the world. And if he, whose glory was to fill 
the universe, and whose pursuits (if anything 
connected with time can be) were worthy of an 
immortal soul, could pant for retirement in the 
meridian of his days, what excuse have they 
who, in senectude and feebleness, continue to 
toil among the mole-hills of earth for a little 
perishable gold, for which they have no use 
when they have obtained it ? 

Shakspeare retired from the metropolis at a 
period little past the prime of life. We meet 
with no hint of any failure in his constitution ; 
and the execution of his will, in " perfect health 
and memory," on the 25th of March, 1616, 
warrants no immediate expectation of his de- 
cease. The curtain was now to fall, however, 
on this earthly stage of existence. He died 
on the 23d of April, the anniversary of his 
birthj having exactly completed his fifty-second 
year. On the 25th, two days after his death, 
his body was laid in its original dust, being 
buried under the north side of the chancel of 
the great church of Stratford; a flat stone, 
protecting all that was perishable of the 



226 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 

remains of Shakspeare, bears this inscrip 
tion : 

" Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare 
To digg the dust enclosed here : 
Bless'd be the man that spares these stones, 
And curst be he that moves my bones." 

The common opinion is th^t these lines were 
written by the poet himself ; but this notion 
has, perhaps, originated solely from the use of 
the word " my " in the closing line. " The 
imprecation," says Malone, was probably sug- 
gested by an apprehension " that our author's 
remains might share the same fate with those 
of the rest of his countrymen, and be added to 
the immense pile of human bones deposited in 
Stratford charnel-house." 

We shall now give a brief abstract of Shaks- 
peare's will, which is yet extant in the Pre- 
rogative OfBce. It bears the date, March 25, 
16 1 6, and commences with the following para- 
graphs : 

*'In the name of God, amen. I, William 
Shakspeare, at Stratford-upon-Avon, in the 
county of Warwick, gent., in perfect health and 
memory, (God be praised !) do make and or- 
dain this my last will and testament in manner 
and form following : that is to say : 

" First, I commend my soul into the hands 
of God my creator, hoping, and assuredly be- 
lieving, through the only merits of Jesus Christ, 
my Saviour, to be made partaker of life everlast- 
ing ; and my body to the earth whereof it is 
made." 



LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 22 J 

It then proceeds to make the bequests 

enumerated below : 

To his daughter y//fc?///2 he gave 150/. of law- 
ful English money ; 100/. to be paid in dis- 
charge of her marriage-portion within one year 
after his decease, and the remaining 50/. upon 
her giving up to her elder sister, Susanna 
Hall, all her right in a copyhold tenement 
and appurtenances, parcel of the manor of 
Rowington. To the said Judith he also be- 
queathed 150/. more, if she or any of her issue 
were living three years from the date of his 
will ; but, in the contrary event, then he di- 
rected that 100/. of the sum should be paid to 
his niece, Elizabeth Hall, and the proceeds of 
the 50/. to his sister Joan, or Jone Hart, for 
life, with residue to her children. He further 
gave to the said Judith abroad silver-gilt bowl. 
To his sister Joan, besides the contingent be- 
quest above mentioned, he gave 20/. and all 
his wearing apparel ; also the house in Strat- 
ford, in which she was to reside for her 
natural life, under the yearly rent of twelve- 
pence. To her three sons, William Hart, 

Hart, and Michael Hart, he gave 5/. apiece, to 
be paid within one year after his decease. 
To his grand-daughter, Elizabeth Hall, he be- 
queathed all his plate, the silver bowl above 
excepted. To the poor of Stratford he be- 
queathed 10/. ; to Mr. Thomas Cole, his 
sword ; to Thomas Russel, 5/. ; to Francis 
Collins, Esq., 13/. 6s. Sd. ; to Hamlet (Ham- 
net), saddler, i/. 6s. 2>d. to buy a ring; and a 



228 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARR. 

like sum, for the same purpose, to W'ilHani 
Renolds, gent., Anthony Nash, gent., John 
Heminge, Richard Burbage, and Henry 
Cundell, his " fellows " ; also twenty shillings 
in gold to his godson, William Walker. To 
his daughter, Susanna Hall, he bequeathed 
New Place, with the appurtenances, situated 
in Henley Street ; also, all his " barns, stables, 
orchards, gardens, lands, tenements and hered- 
itaments whatsoever, situate, lying, and beings 
or to be had, received, perceived, or taken, 
within the towns, hamlets, villages, fields, and 
ground of Stratford-upon-Avon, Old Stratford, 
Bishopton, and Welcombe, or in any of them 
in the said county of Warwick ; and also all 
that messuage or tenement, with the appur- 
tenances, wherein one John Robinson dwelleth, 
situated, lying, and being in the Blackfriars, 
London, near the Wardrobe: and all my other 
lands, tenements, and hereditaments whatso- 
ever, to have and to hold all and singular the 
said premises, with their appurtenances, unto 
the said Susanna Hall, for and during the 
term of her natural life : and, after her decease, 
to the first son of her body, lawfully issuing; 
and to the heirs male of her said first son, 
lawfully issuing; and for default of such issue, 
Xo the second son of h* body, lawfully issuing, 
and to the heirs male of the said second son, law- 
fully issuing ; " and so forth as to third, fourth, 
fifth, sixth, and seventh sons of her body, and 
their heirs male : " and for default of such 
issue, the said premises to be and remain tC 



LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 



229 



my niece Hall, and the heirs male of her body, 
lawfully issuing ; and for default of such issue, 
to her daughter Judith, and the heirs male of 
her body lawfully issuing ; and for default of 
such issue, to the right heirs of me the said 
William Shakspeare," To the said Susanna 
Hall and her husband, whom he appointed 
executors of his will, under the direction of 
Francis Collins and Thomas Russel, Esqs., he 
further bequeathed all the rest of his " goods, 
chatties, leases, plate, jewels, and household 
stuff whatsoever," after the payment of his 
debts, legacies, and funeral expenses ; with 
the exception of his " second-best bed, with the 
furniture,'' which constituted the OJily bequest 
he made to his toife, and that by insertion after 
the will was written out. 

A few additional facts respecting Shaks- 
peare's family may be acceptable. His wife 
survived him seven years, and was buried be- 
tween his grave and the north wall of the 
chancel, under a stone inlaid with brass, and 
inscribed thus : 

" Heere lyeth interred the bodye of Anne, 
wife of Mr. William Shakspeare, who departed 
this life the sixth day of August, 1623, being 
at the age of sixty-seven yeares." 

We have thus, as briefly as the importance 
of such a memoir would permit, gone over the 
meager biographical remains of the noblest 
dramatic poet the world has ever produced. 
Without attempting to draw the character of 
this matchless writer, we have occasionally, in 



230 



LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 



the course of our narrative, endeavored to 
mark the feeUng of respect and admiration by 
which we are influenced while contemplating 
the mighty performances of a mind which, with 
little assistance from education, surpassed all 
the efforts of ancient and modern genius. 



:::iIRONOLOGICAL ORDER OF SHAKS^ 
PEARE'S DRAMAS. 

ON .'HE AUTHORITY OF MALDNE, CHALMERS, 
AND KNlGHT. 

The ensuing enumeration of Shakspeare's 
dramas, with the dates assigned by the most 
generally received authorities, is merely given 
as. a matter of curiosity ; for the learned com- 
mentators are so much at variance in their 
chronology, that it deserves little or no atten- 
tion. Indeed, when we reflect that the first edi- 
tion of our author did not appear till several 
years after his death, and was then published by 
the players, who, it can scarcely be supposed, 
would pay any regard to the order of time in 
their arrangement of the dramas, it must be 
obvious that, with a very few exceptions, the 
dates given to those compositions are purely 
conjectural. A cloud rests over Shakspeare's 
career as an author, which is not now likely 
to be dispersed ; those who were most familiar 
with the operations of his extraordinary genius 
seem to have been hardly aware '' that he was 
not for a day, but for all time •, " they paid 
their shillings and applauded his productions 
on the stage, perhaps, but they had little taste 

231 



232 ORDER OF SHAKSPEARE'S DRAMAS. 

or inclination to do them justice in the closet. 
Shakspeare himself appears to have been re- 
markably careless of his own fame : he pro- 
duced his great works without effort, and be- 
queathed them to his country, unconscious of 
their merit, and reckless of their fate. 

Malotie. Chalmers. Knight. 

Pericles Not acknowledged. 1609 

First Part of King Henry 

VI.. _ 1589 1589 1592 

Second ditto i59Q 159° ^594 

Third ditto 1591^1595 1595 

A Midsummer Night's 

Dream „. 1592 1598 1598 

Comedy of Errors 1593 1591 1598 

Taming of the Shrew ^594 1598 1607 

Love's Labor's Lost ^594 1592 1598 

Two Gentlemen of Verona 1595 1595 1598 

Romeo and Juliet 1595 1592 1597 

Hamlet 1596 1597, i^o3j 

King John T^ 1598 1598" 

King Richard- II 1597 1595 1596 

King Richard III 1597 1595 1597 

First Part of King Henry 

JV.._ 1597 1596 1598 

-^■'Second ditto 1598 1597 1600 

Merchant of Venice 1598 1597 1598 

All's Well that Ends Well 1598 1599 1598 

.^King Henry V 1599 1597 1600 

Much Ado about Nothing 1600 1599 1600 

As You Like It 1600 1599 1600 

Merry Wives of Windsor... i6oi 159S 1602 



ORDER OF SHAKSPEARE'S DRAMAS. 23^5 
Malone. Chalmers. Knighi. 

King Henry VIII 1601 16x3 1613 

Troilus and Gressida 1602 1600 1609 

Measure for Measure.... 1603 1604 1604 

-The Winter's Tale 1604 1601 1611 

King Lear 1605 1605 1607 

Cymb.eline 1605 1606 — 

Macbeth 1606 1606 — 

Julius Cassar 1607 1607 — 

Antony and Cleopatra.... 1608 1608 

Timon of Athens 1609 1601 — 

Coriolanus 1610 1609 — 

Othello 1611 1614 1602 

The Tempest 1612 2613 1611 

Twelfth Night 1614 1608 1602 

Titus Andronicus not acknowledged by 
these critics, nor indeed by any author of 
credit, but originally published about 7-89. 

THE END, 



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